


Romancing The Tome

by Anti_kate



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: And they were both perverts, Bad Decisions, Canon-Typical Violence, Car Chase, Crowley is a grumpy bastard, Gabriel is the worst, Good Omens RomCom Event, Goromcom, Huddling For Warmth, Human AU, M/M, Marijuana Use, Mention of guns, Mutual Masturbation, Romance writer Aziraphale, Romancing The Stone, THERE WAS ONLY ONE BED, The Tropical Forests of Scotland, There was only one sleeping bag - Freeform, alternative universe, bickerflirting, but it all works out ok
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-17
Updated: 2020-05-17
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:07:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 39,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23186740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anti_kate/pseuds/Anti_kate
Summary: Romance novelist Aziraphale Wilder is pulled from his carefully ordered life when his sister is kidnapped and held to ransom. With the help of antiquities forger Anthony J Crowley, he braves the wilds of Scotland to rescue her and keep a priceless book from falling into the hands of dangerous book thieves.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley
Comments: 1051
Kudos: 867
Collections: Good Omens Rom Com Event, Ineffable Delights to Sink Your Teeth Into





	1. Fantasy Cowboy Boyfriend

**Author's Note:**

> At last, my humble offering for the Good Omens Romcom event! I hope everyone enjoys this madness as much as I enjoyed writing Aziraphale’s terrible romance novel excerpts!  
> Thank you, a million times, to the incomparable Summerofspock for beta-ing and being a tireless cheerleader, and to everyone at the GoEvents discord server for their hand-holding through the anxiety gremlins. (I also really hope Moveslikebucky enjoys this.)  
> Also, please note, this is set in Fantasy!Scotland, so please forgive any errors of Scottish geography, slang or culture.  
> Updates weekly.

_ Antonio burst into the saloon through the swinging doors like an angel of vengeance and Zachariah knew at that moment that there would never be another man for him. A thrill ran through Zachariah’s body at the sight of him. The swagger of his hips, the faint dusting of stubble along his square jaw, the triangle of exposed skin beneath the red bandanna around his neck, the way he held the shotgun almost casually, although Zachariah knew his aim would be perfect. _ He came for me,  _ he thought. He strained at the rope wrapped around his body as Antonio strode into the room, the leather chaps around his thighs- _

Wait, was the thing about the leather chaps ridiculous? Aziraphale stopped typing and took a sip of his tea, and thought long and hard about distressed leather wrapped around long, lean legs.

_ NOTE TO SELF: MORE ABOUT CHAPS HERE. _

_ “You’re too late, Antonio,” Grogan sneered, levelling his colt revolver at Zachariah’s head. “This little bird has already sung. He told us everything.” _

_ Zachariah tried to look into Antonio’s beautiful amber eyes, but his hat was pulled low, obscuring them from view.  _

“Oi, mate, is this one 20 percent off too?” the customer slapped the book down on the counter. Aziraphale looked up from his laptop with irritation, but he put on an insincere smile as he scanned the book and rang it up.

Anathema had begged him to come and work at the bookshop for the day and she’d made those big round eyes at him and promised him she’d pick up sushi and a bottle of something lovely when she got home from Edinburgh. 

So he’d agreed, even though his manuscript was on deadline and he was struggling with the whole second act, even though he hated customers, even though he was probably less useful than Warlock, Anathema’s stinky little dog. It had taken him weeks to learn how to use the till and sometimes, after he locked up, he’d get halfway home and have to come back to make sure he’d done it properly. 

It was Anathema, though, so he suffered through it. Not silently, of course, because while he loved his sister, he didn’t love her enough not to whinge.

The customer left and he returned to his draft. 

_ “Is that so?” Antonio hissed.  _

_ Zachariah shook his head, trying to plead with Antonio with his eyes. He didn’t dare speak, the revolver was so close to his head he could smell the oil and the faint hint of gunpowder– _

_ NOTE TO SELF: Gunpowder smell? Was cordite in use in the 1870s?  _

_ Grogan reached down and jerked Zachariah’s head back. He shuddered with horror at the touch of the man who had murdered his family.  _

_ “Such a pretty little birdy,” he said. “Be a shame if anything happened to him.” _

_ “Zachariah,” Antonio said, in a low voice. “Do you trust me?” _

_ Zachariah gave the tiniest of nods and– _

Warlock trotted up and barked at him, which meant he needed to go outside. Aziraphale begrudgingly took him out to the small park across the street from the bookshop, even though he was sure the dog was just doing it to annoy him. Surely the blasted creature didn’t need to urinate 15 times a day.

He settled back down at the front counter and opened his file again.

_ –the shot rang through the saloon. Grogan fell to the floor. Antonio crossed the floor to Zachariah’s side, his spurs jangling, and used his knife to cut through the rope that bound him to the chair. He pulled him to his feet and into a crushing embrace, his mouth ho– _

Aziraphale’s phone rang. 

“How’s the shop?” Anathema asked cheerfully down the line.

“There have been an inordinate number of customers today. They were all very annoying, buying things and asking me questions.”

Anathema laughed at that. “I appreciate your hard work at chasing them away. How’s the writing?”

“It’d be going much better without all these interruptions.”

“You old grump. Did you talk to that cute barista from the cafe yet?”

Aziraphale shut his eyes. “No, and I’m not going to.”

“Az. Az.  _ Az _ . He’s cute, he’s right next door, he’s always giving you free biscuits, he’s perfect!”

“If you like him so much, you should ask him out.”

“He’s extremely gay, or I would. Come on, Az, he’s always flirting with you–“

“I’m just not looking for anything right now.”

“No, I think your problem is you’re waiting for someone to ride up on a white horse and sweep you off your feet and that just doesn’t happen in the real world. You have to actually work for these things, you know.”

Aziraphale sighed and Anathema stopped. 

“I’m sorry Az, I just want you to be happy,” she said, contrite. They’d had this conversation before. Anathema thought he should get on some dreadful app and go on  _ dates _ with random strangers and chat up men at the shops, and he was perfectly content to do none of those things. 

“I am happy, dearest,” he replied, firmly. “What time is your flight getting back?” 

“Actually that’s why I called. I’ve nearly got the buyer worn down on this manuscript. It’s amazing, Az, I don’t think they know what they’ve got. But... I might need to stay up here overnight.”

“Anathema, you said one day!” One day up north, trying to buy a mysterious old book from some elderly collector. 

“Come on, Aziraphale. If I get this manuscript it could change everything. I could focus on the rare books instead of the shop. I could take you on a proper holiday instead of you always paying for everything all the time.”

“I have plenty of money, Anathema, it’s not a problem for me to pay for things.” 

“I know,” she made a dissatisfied noise. “But still, can you handle everything tomorrow?”

He rubbed his forehead. It wasn’t Anathema’s fault he’d written himself into approximately a thousand corners with his plot and only had four days before his first draft was due to his publisher. He could work all weekend on it without interruptions, and he didn’t sleep much at the best of times, so a few all-nighters wouldn’t kill him.

“Of course, my dear. I’ll bring Warlock home with me, shall I?”

He returned to his laptop. 

Back to the kiss. His two characters had been separated for 40 pages and now they needed their reunion. 

_ –against Zachariah’s lips, his tongue sweeping over his bottom lip. Antonio’s strong, masculine scent was intoxicating, and the feel of his work-roughened hands on Zachariah’s jaw made his knees go weak. They were made to be together, he knew it, and now with Grogan gone they finally could be. _

_ “I didn’t betray you,” Zachariah said when they broke apart.  _

_ “I know,” Antonio’s eyes glittered feverishly with desire, but this was neither the time nor the place for them to give in to their burning need for each other. “Come on, the rangers are on my tail. Let’s see how far we can get by sundown.” _

* * *

Aziraphale was carefully going through the tedious work of reconciling the till the next evening when the courier arrived at the shop with a package from Anathema. He signed for it without much thought, and stashed it in his satchel so he could give it to Anathema over dinner. 

It had been a dreary, wet day and there hadn’t been much foot traffic, which had suited him just fine. 

His head was still somewhere else, in a burnt sienna landscape of sagebrush and canyons, with a tall, devastatingly handsome man on the back of a cremello stallion. 

He’d gone next door to the cafe earlier in the day for his mid-morning latte and the barista had indeed flirted with him rather obviously, but Aziraphale couldn’t help but compare him to the mental picture he’d developed of Antonio. The barista was a solid, muscular man who looked like he worked out — which was fine, if you were into that sort of thing — and Aziraphale assumed plenty of people were. 

But Antonio was lanky and long. He wasn’t skinny, but he was lithe. Spare. His hands were calloused but his fingers were graceful. His neck was one sinuous line ... and his hips. Oh lord, they were sinful. Aziraphale could imagine every inch of him, from the swoop of his collarbones, to the dimples on his lower back. And the rest of him too. 

It was ridiculous. He knew it was ridiculous, and he could hear Anathema’s voice in his head telling him it was ridiculous.

“Az,” she would say, putting her tea down. “Az, you made Antonio up. He’s not real. No man could ever live up to your fantasy cowboy boyfriend. No wonder you haven’t been on a date in...” And here even his mental image of his sister went a bit squiggly, out of sheer embarrassment. “In five years.”

Almost six now, but who was counting?

He put Warlock on his lead and locked the bookshop’s door behind him. Home was a nice enough flat in Mayfair–thanks to the advances for his first five books. Books five through ten had given him enough money to quit his day job as an english teacher, and books ten through fourteen had helped him invest in Anathema’s shop, and now he was on book 15. 

He hadn’t heard from Anathema but he assumed she’d ring when she got in, so he fed Warlock, ordered a curry, put on some Puccini, and opened a nice bottle of Chardonnay. 

Then he opened his laptop, and settled himself on the couch. 

_ Zachariah tangled his fingers into Antonio’s hair and kissed him deeply, pulling him down onto the blanket by the fire. He tasted like bourbon and smoke, and Zachariah couldn’t kiss him deeply enough. Antonio moaned against him, hips grinding down, his hard– _

Aziraphale’s phone rang again, and he sighed, saw it was Anathema, and answered it.

“Az? You have to help me, Az,” she said, in a tone he’d only heard before a few times. When their father died. When their mother had thrown her out of the house. A tone that suggested she was trying to hold herself together and not quite succeeding.

“Dearest, what’s wrong?” 

“Az, please, just do what they tell you–” 

Strange sounds came from the phone, and a different voice spoke. 

“You’re the brother?” he, whoever he was, demanded, in a rough voice.

“Yes,” Aziraphale breathed.

“Good. Have you got the package?”

“Sorry?”

“The package. The one that was delivered today.”

Aziraphale remembered then. “Yes, yes, of course, yes.”

“Get it and bring it to us, or your sister gets it. If you involve the cops, she’s dead. I’m going to send you the address now. You’ve got one week to make it happen.”

The phone went dead.

* * *

The thing was. The thing was that Aziraphale had built a carefully ordered life, one of routines and familiar objects. His flat was cluttered with his favourite books, his collections of regency snuff boxes and West German pottery and misprinted bibles. He’d travelled, certainly, but he always booked everything six months in advance and had detailed itineraries for each day. He researched the restaurants he wanted to visit, the museums he wanted to go to. He wore a variation of the same outfit every day. 

He was comfortable. 

The last time he’d done something spontaneous was when he’d sent the first draft of his first novel– _ The Flame and the Sword _ –to the publisher, and while that had turned into a rather delightful thing, he sometimes wondered (often in the middle of the night when he sat alone in his bed tapping away at his laptop) whether he’d exhausted all his capacity for adventure in that one moment. 

This... whatever this situation was... it didn’t fit in his sort of life. He sat on the sofa and stared at his phone for a very long time, trying to get his mind to unfreeze. It was ridiculous. Anathema was a bookshop owner with a sideline in rare books! He was a novelist! People like them didn’t get wrapped up in kidnappings. The most unexpected thing that had happened to Aziraphale that he could remember was the time he’d dozed off on the tube and ended up a dozen stops down the line.

The phone dinged and an address came through from Anathema’s phone. It was in Scotland, and he opened it on the maps app, zooming out to see exactly where it was. Which seemed to be in the middle of nowhere. 

With trembling hands he opened his satchel and pulled out the package. It was rectangular and although whatever was within was heavily padded, it must be a book of some sort. 

He considered opening it to get a better idea of what it was, but then he remembered the panic in Anathema’s voice, and decided he didn’t want to do anything that might endanger her. So he put it carefully back in his satchel, and went back to his laptop to book a flight to Aberdeen first thing the next morning.

The phone rang again. He recognized the number as the security firm that Anathema used to monitor the shop (he’d accidentally set off the alarm a few times himself), and he answered it.  _ Now what? _

“Mr Wilder? We’ve got an alarm at your bookshop. Shall we dispatch the police?”

Aziraphale steadied himself. “Oh no, I’m ... it’s a... a false alarm,” he said as normally as could. “Could you switch it off please?”

He put the package back in his satchel, and not half an hour later, he found himself standing in front of the back door to the bookstore, his shoes crunching on broken glass at the back door. The back room had been torn to bits–every drawer pulled out of the desks, all the files on the shelves tipped out.

He swallowed, and walked into the shop itself. It was much the same story–it seemed as if every book had been dashed down from the shelving, half the furniture overturned. 

First Anathema, and now this. It must be connected to the package.

He found the sofa cushion, but it had been shredded, all its stuffing pulled out onto the floor, so he sat down heavily on the sofa without it. This was all far too much.

“I can’t do this,” he said aloud to the empty air of the shop. But what other choice did he have?

He took some deep breaths. First, he had to figure out something to do with Warlock, and of course he had to email his publisher and tell them he wouldn’t be sending in his manuscript next week. After that all he had to do was go to Aberdeen, deliver a package, rescue Anathema, and then everything would be just tickety-boo.

* * *

Several hours later, at Gatwick airport, a pale man in a long grubby trench coat gave up looking for the man he was trying to find when he spotted another man, this one balding, rather squat and round.

Sandalphon, the bald man’s name was. 

Hastur knew him by sight. He panicked, and hid in the women’s toilets for a good half an hour before he dared come out. By which time, Aziraphale, the writer, had completely disappeared.

Hastur cursed his luck. He’d already missed the man twice–once at the bookshop and again, when he’d driven to his flat and seen him getting into a cab.

He’d followed the cab to the airport. It was far too crowded to risk anything there.

He slunk off into the airport’s newsagent/book store and pretended to be considering which James Patterson book to buy, but pulled his phone out of his pocket instead.

“Mum. It’s me, Hastur,” he said when Ligur answered.

“Yeah I got caller ID,” Ligur said back. “Why are you calling me mum though?”

Hastur sighed. “It’s the cover story,” he hissed.

“Oh, yeah, I forgot. So what’s happening?”

“I lost him.”

“Shit.”

“And I saw Sandalphon, which means Gabriel’s around here somewhere.”

“Double shit.”

“Yeah.” Hastur looked around the airport, sucking on his teeth. “How’s the phone tracking going?”

Ligur made a noise. “Oh, did you want me to do that now?

Hastur shut his eyes and rubbed his forehead. “Yes, Ligur, now. He’s already got a head start on me, and I’ve been hiding from Sandalphon, so we need to know where he is.”

“Beez won’t be happy about any of this, you know,” Ligur fretted.

“Of course. But he must have the book, because it wasn’t in the shop. It’ll all be ok.” Hastur wished he could believe that himself. If they didn’t find the book before Gabriel and his team got their hands on it, Luke would probably have him killed and fed to the sharks. 

Wait, did they have sharks in Scotland? 

No matter. He wouldn’t care about the sharks either way if he was dead, and he really really didn’t want to be dead. 

His phone dinged with the last known coordinates of the bloody novelist he’d already lost, and he hadn’t got too far; he was just outside of Aberdeen. That at least was good news. 

* * *

Aziraphale was lost. He was lost, his phone had died, and he’d forgotten to bring the car charger. He was on some tiny back road somewhere in the wilderness of Scotland and it was an utter disaster. The road was so skinny he couldn’t even turn around, and he hated driving at the best of times but now he was lost. 

And he was seeing things, because at Gatwick he swore he was being followed by a pale-haired man in a long grubby trench coat, and he’d hidden in a bathroom for half an hour before he’d gathered up the courage to walk out and dash for his flight.

He had probably been seeing things.

He grimly gripped the steering wheel. It was raining, he’d been driving for hours after picking up the hire car in Aberdeen, he’d had no sleep, and he’d eaten two whole packs of Malteasers and drank seven lattes so he felt jittery and light-headed. 

He’d printed out a hard copy of map of course–he wasn’t that stupid, just almost that stupid–but he had no idea where he in relation to the map, so it might as well have been a map of Colombia for all the good it was doing him. 

The road wound alongside some small hill. It was dreadfully picturesque, looking out over a valley of red and gold. Heather? Gorse? There were hills and what might have been mountains jutting grey in the distance. Low clouds were beginning to scud in, and if Aziraphale had been there on a nice drive, he’d have stopped to take a photo.

But he wasn’t, and he chided himself for even thinking about the scenery when he should be trying to find a place to turn around. The road was rather narrow, barely wide enough for two cars to pass, with the hill on one side and a steadily increasing sheer drop on the other, and he hadn’t seen a place to turn around for ages. He also hadn’t seen another car for a while. 

He’d also lost track of how many times he’d backtracked and apparently driven in circles since his phone had gone dead.

The low clouds advanced over the valley, backlit in the afternoon sun, and a fine drizzle began over the car. It didn’t stay a drizzle for long, unfortunately, and soon it was raining properly. 

Wonderful, Aziraphale thought sourly. Right. He was going to turn around right now. 

He slowed the car. The road was so narrow here it was basically going to be a three or more point turn. It wasn’t even a paved road. It was just gravel now, and the rain was so thick and he was halfway through the turn and by the time he saw the other car it was too late–

There was a crash, and for a moment Aziraphale had no idea what was happening as he heard brakes screeching and a smash. His skin stung as he was pelted with small objects, which he realised a moment later was glass from the windscreen and, oh bugger, he’d been hit by the other car  _ and _ his brain chose that moment to helpfully remind him he’d refused the stupid car hire extra insurance and now he was on the hook for this Volkswagen as well as everything else.

There was silence, and nothing was moving, and Aziraphale forced himself to breathe and open his eyes, because he’d scrunched them tightly shut.

The airbag had inflated and the windscreen had shattered, and he saw the crumpled front end of some sort of boxy four-wheel-drive thing. He met eyes with its driver.

They stared at one another for what felt like a very long time. Then the man from the other car was undoing his seatbelt, throwing open his door, and already yelling.

_ Oh no,  _ Aziraphale thought dimly.  _ We’ve had a crash and now he’s going to shout at me. _

He was indeed. He stalked towards Aziraphale and because there was no windscreen on the Volkswagen anymore Aziraphale could very clearly hear every word of his angry yelling. 

“You absolute fucking pillock, what were you doing? You complete dickhead! You... fuck! Fuck! Are you ok? Are you hurt?”

Aziraphale’s brain took a moment to process the words, and he didn’t really understand them, and for some reason he decided then that what he really should do was to try to reverse out of the man’s boxy car, so he lifted his foot off the brake and pushed the accelerator. 

If the crash itself had been stunningly instantaneous, the next part seemed to happen in very slow motion, like a bad dream. (As if the whole thing wasn’t part of some awful dream.)

Because instead of having the car in reverse, it was still in drive, and the Volkswagen leapt forward. There was more crunching and a terrible noise, and the car slid in slow motion over the side of the road.

Aziraphale slammed on the brakes for the second time before the Volkswagen followed the other vehicle down the hill. 

It wasn’t that steep, but it was steep enough, and the boxy car did quite a slow but inexorable tumble over the edge before sliding down the hill where it landed with a loud crunching banging noise at the bottom of the valley. 

_ Oh fuck _ , Aziraphale thought again, _ oh fuck fuck fuck. _

“Fuck!” The other car’s driver, who Aziraphale had quite frankly forgotten about, was suddenly right there, yanking open the door of the Volkswagen, and Aziraphale briefly thought–the part of him that hadn’t died in horrific mortification–that he was going to be able to add some sort of assault to his list of awful things that happened that day. But instead the man leaned over him to yank on the hand brake and kill the engine. 

“You... what...” the man made a series of spluttering noises that sounded rather like a whole stretch of consonants linked together instead of words, and Aziraphale looked up into his face. 

He had time to note that the man was wearing sunglasses and had red hair before his mouth switched back on. “I am, so, so, so sorry! I’m just... this is... I’ve had the most awful day and I got lost and I was just turning around and I’m so sorry I was just trying to reverse so we could inspect the damage and of course I’ll pay for everything and my phone has gone flat and I completely forgot the charging cable and I really am so so sorry though I’d probably prefer it if you didn’t hit me, but if you want to I really do understand, it’s just been an utterly awful day and my sister you see and ...” the flood of words died, leaving him breathless.

The man was gaping now. 

“Did you hit your head or something?” He didn’t seem as though he was going to punch Aziraphale at least, although it made Aziraphale feel even more like crying. Which he wasn’t going to do, of course, he was a grown man, and he was going to hold himself together. Stiff upper lip.

“I don’t know,” Aziraphale admitted, shakily. 

“Get out and let’s take a look at you then,” the man said. “If you can stand.”

Aziraphale nodded at that. “I think so.” But then he discovered his hands were shaking too much to undo his seatbelt, so the man leaned over him and did it for him before helping him to his feet. 

There were chunks of broken glass everywhere and they fell to the ground around his feet. His legs were wobbly and he suddenly thought he might fall, so he clutched at the man for support. He was thin, but wiry, and he felt comfortingly solid, and for a moment Aziraphale leaned into him.

“Are you ok?” the man said again, hand patting at Aziraphale’s back in a rather awkward way. Aziraphale forced himself to step back.

“Yes, just... a bit wobbly, thank you. But I seem to be in one piece. Are you... are you hurt yourself?”

“No, I’m fine. I mean, you’ve just driven my car off a hill, and that’s a fucking disaster, so I’m not actually fine. Not  _ fine.  _ But I’m not actually hurt.”

They stared at each other. The man was taller than Aziraphale, and he had longish red hair, half-pulled back from his face in a pony tail. He was angular and, Aziraphale thought rather shamefully, quite good looking. Well, there was no quite about it, he was very good looking, which somehow made the whole thing even worse. (As if crashing into the car of a not-good-looking person might have been any better.  _ Really, Aziraphale, get a hold of yourself.) _

“I am so sorry,” Aziraphale said again. “Should we call the police? Or or or... roadside assistance?” He realised he had no idea what to do, and he looked at the man in the hope he’d have some wonderful suggestion that would answer all their problems. 

“No police,” the man said. He seemed to have exhausted all his anger and now he just sounded tired. “It’ll just get complicated. Ok. All right. So. My mate has a tow truck. I’ll call him. But. Shit. My phone is... down there.”

At that he pointed to the car at the bottom of the hill.

Aziraphale looked down at the car, then back at the man’s face, and tried to resist the urge to apologise again but failed. 

“I’m so very–“ he said but the man held up both hands and made a disgusted noise.

“Just stop it, ok? You’re sorry, yep, I get it. I am sure you didn’t do this on purpose. Unless this was all some sort of elaborate murder scheme or something. And you don’t look like a murderer.”

“I dare say murderers generally don’t,” Aziraphale said, and immediately regretted it.

“Go on then, kill me. Make my day even better.” The man huffed out a breath as if mentally steadying himself, but he didn’t give Aziraphale a chance to respond further. “Here’s what I’m going to do. I’m going to go down there, get my phone and my backpack, and then I’m going to call Dave and his tow truck, and hopefully we’ll be out of here before tomorrow.”

With that, he began clambering down the hill, leaving Aziraphale standing in the steadily worsening drizzle. 

“What can I do?” Aziraphale called after his back. 

“I think you’ve done enough,” the man replied acidly, and Aziraphale winced. He turned to look back at the wreck of the hire car, and saw that the rain was coming down in sheets across the valley. He reached in across the car and grabbed his umbrella, and took off after the man. 

“Please wait!” He scrambled a little on the slope to catch up. It was steeper than it looked, and the car had made quite a jagged mess of things as it had slid past.The rocks were damp, and he stumbled, but caught up in a moment. 

The man turned, glaring. “What?”

Aziraphale opened the brolly and held it out. A peace offering. “You’ll be drenched before you get down there,” he said, and gave a little laugh. “You wouldn’t want to be wet on top of everything else.”

The man’s face contorted through several expressions before landing on something close to puzzlement. 

“No, but thank you,” he said, with exaggerated politeness, and set off down the slope again. 

Well then. Aziraphale hovered, hand still extended, for a useless moment, before he decided to follow. Perhaps he could be helpful and carry something up? He just felt so awful and sorry but he definitely thought he shouldn’t apologise again, but he couldn’t just stand there. So he followed the man as he zigzagged down the slope. It was slow going, especially for Aziraphale, wearing his favourite warm brown leather dress shoes, which had virtually no grip at all, and his umbrella in one hand.

The red-headed man, in contrast, seemed like a mountain goat, making his way down the mountain slope with easy confidence even as the rain grew heavier. 

Aziraphale couldn’t help but admire his easy movements, the confidence of his steps on the slope. He had rather long legs, clad in a pair of slim-fitting black jeans that sat low on his hips. Aziraphale tried not to watch him, and failed, as the rest of him was hardly any better–or worse–to look at. He was wearing only a tight black long-sleeved t-shirt and it very clearly defined the shape of his upper body, the move of muscles over his back as he steadied himself at a particularly steep spot. 

_ Stop it,  _ Aziraphale told himself firmly. This was not the time to ogle the poor man. There would never be a worse time than this to ogle anyone. 

Instead he followed him down as best he could, albeit much less gracefully. 

The man shot him a look. “What are you doing?”

“Coming with you?”

“Why?”

“To help.”

“You’re a regular bloody angel you are.”

The man was at the bottom of the slope now, and Aziraphale could hear him making dismayed sounds at the state of his vehicle. 

“I thought if I helped you it might go faster,” Aziraphale was a few steps behind him. “Because, well, I’ve got a bit of a situation and–”

“We’ve all got our problems today, haven’t we?” the man said, yanking open the passenger door, and half-climbed into the car, the action pulling his jeans tight around his thighs and backside. 

Aziraphale decided then that he must have suffered head trauma and not realised it, because he was standing in the rain in the wilds of Scotland with some strange man–whose car he had just completely destroyed–and he was staring at his arse. 

The man climbed out again and pulled on a black jacket, some expensive looking padded goretex thing that was rather less stylish than the rest of his outfit but, Aziraphale thought, as the rain began to come down in earnest now, was probably pretty warm.

Then the man had his phone in his hands, and scowled at it, before viciously kicked the tire of his car. “Fuck. No bloody signal.” 

“Oh.” Aziraphale couldn’t even muster up surprise at that. Of course, they were in the middle of the wilds of Scotland. 

The man had stuffed his phone into his pocket and was standing, his hands in his own hair, staring off into the distance. There was a long moment where the only sound was the drumming of rain on the roof of the car and Aziraphale’s umbrella. 

“New plan,” the man said. “I’m getting my stuff, we’ll drive your car back to the village, and I’m going to get drunk for a week. And you’re going to pay for it, and you’re buying the good stuff. Laphroaig, ok?”

He went to the car and spent several minutes stuffing things into a large army-style backpack. Aziraphale saw the back of the Jeep was full of filing boxes, plastic bags, and well-used looking shovels and sledge hammers. 

“What were you doing out here?” Aziraphale asked, despite himself.

“Archaeological survey,” the man said, shortly. “But this stuff should be ok here. I hope.”

He handed something to Aziraphale, who looked down and saw it was a box of protein bars. “You can carry that.” He slammed the boot shut, shouldered his backpack, and started back up the hill.

Aziraphale followed him back up the slope and definitely did not spend any time being distracted by those tight black jeans. It was definitely all the adrenaline and ridiculousness of it all, he told himself firmly. Some sort of flight fight or fu... well, that response, anyway. He had to focus on getting back to civilization, getting to where Anathema was being held, sorting out all the problems, and giving this man enough money to make up for this whole sorry affair.

By the time Aziraphale got back up the hill, the man was standing by the Volkswagen.

“Why don’t you do the honours?” Aziraphale said, and the man hopped into the driver’s seat.

_ Please start, _ Aziraphale thought hopefully. 

The car, of course, did not.


	2. Not Much Of A Pervert

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And there was only one sleeping bag!  
> CW: drug use, mentions of sex, and there’s also a man with a gun.  
> A bothy is a hut used by hikers, in case you were wondering.  
> Thanks again to Summerofspock for the beta, and for everyone at the GOEvents server for being delightful.

As the Volkswagen didn’t start, Crowley resisted the urge, yet again, to turn to the blonde man and ask if he’d just woken up this morning and decided he was going to ruin someone’s life, and Crowley just happened to be the first bloody victim he’d stumbled across. Or crashed his car into.

The man stood under his absurd tartan umbrella, wringing his hands. Actually wringing them, like a wet towel. 

“Oh dear,” he said, weakly. 

Crowley banged his fist on the steering wheel, once. Then he took a deep breath.

“The nearest house is about 15 kilometres back that way. We’ve got roughly an hour left of daylight and it’s raining, and frankly I don’t want to be out here in the dark and the wet. There’s a bothy back that way where we can spend the night, and then in the morning we can walk back for help.”

He took in the man’s outfit—sandy-beige trousers, an actual honest-to-god waistcoat over a checked shirt, a bloody bow tie _god help him,_ and a jacket that looked to have the waterproof qualities of a piece of paper. Brown leather brogues already stained dark and wet. He could see the man’s lips were white with cold. The poor bugger needed a shot of whiskey and to sit by a fire to warm up. 

A small part of Crowley’s mind classified the man as not exactly good looking, but interesting, and he’d always had a soft spot for bookish types. He’d taken a lot of shit for it, over the years. Crowley with his succession of clean-cut, take-him-home-to-meet-your-mother boyfriends. They never stuck around long. 

Not Crowley’s fault, although it was always his fault, really. He couldn’t help it. He saw something nice, and he wanted it, and then he made a mess of it. 

Still. He wasn’t out here to pick up strange blokes who’d driven his car off the road. They’d go to the bothy, get out of the rain, and in the morning they’d have a long hike to the nearest house, and then get sorted. The man’s attire was, if not stylish, then well-made and expensive, so Crowley thought he’d be good for the cash. The alternative didn’t bear thinking about.

“Right, well, just let me grab my bag.” The man walked to the back of the Volkswagen and, to Crowley’s eye-rolling irritation, pulled out a small wheeled suitcase. It was tartan, and matched the man’s umbrella. With a leather satchel over his shoulder he looked like he was hopping on a travelator at Heathrow.

Crowley started walking up the road, and the man was forced to trot to catch up with him, the suitcase bouncing along the gravel. 

“How far did you say it was?” 

“‘Bout four kilometres. The trailhead is just up here.”

“Trail...head?”

“Yeah. It’s a bit of a hike.”

“Oh.” The man seemed, if possible, to deflate even further, but he doggedly stuck to Crowley’s side. Even if Crowley was perhaps walking a little bit faster than was necessary, out of spite.

They’d gone maybe 500 metres up the road and the noise of the wheels was already making Crowley regret all his life choices. Starting from when he’d first been expelled from school in Year Three for faking his parents’ signatures on every school note and report for the entire year, and up until this morning when he’d decided to head into civilization a day early. 

“Do you live near here?” the man asked, politely, as if this was the time for small talk.

“No,” Crowley lied. Define near, anyway. It was an hour further down the road and about as far away from other humans as Crowley could currently manage.

“Oh. You seem to know the area well.”

“S’pose.”

They reached the part of the road where the trail to the bothy was marked with a small sign. The trail was little more than a goat track and it was impossible for the man to pull his bag, so he picked it up. That meant he couldn’t hold the umbrella very well, and that meant that with the first gust of wind the umbrella went wheeling out of his hands and tumbled over and over across the heath, and then disappeared behind some rocks. Not that Crowley was casting glances behind him to see what was going on at all.

The man stopped and stared mournfully after the umbrella.

“Come on,” Crowley yelled. “We’re losing daylight.”

* * *

The bothy was a small, low stone cottage with a tin roof. Crowley thought he’d never seen anyone look as happy to see a glorified shed as the blonde man did. 

He was drenched through and looked as miserable as Crowley felt. _Poor bastards, both of us._

Crowley dropped his backpack in the corner and set about making a fire. There was a small stack of logs and deadfall near the door along with a copy of _The Guardian_ from the summer. Crowley built the fire as quickly as he could, and then turned around.

The man was standing dripping in the middle of the floor, still holding his little wheeled tartan suitcase to his chest. It was no warmer inside the bothy than out and he was shivering now. 

“You need to get out of those clothes.” Crowley began pulling things out of his backpack. Sleeping bag, mattress pad, and there. A cheap emergency foil blanket. 

“What?”

“You’re wet through,” Crowley found his spare clothes and looked at the man, who hadn’t moved. He was staring at him as though he’d grown a set of wings. “You need to get warm and dry or you’re going to get hypothermia, and we’ve no way of calling for help here.”

At that Crowley turned his back on the man and pulled off his boots, then shed his jacket, shirt and jeans—jeans were the worst for walking in, he thought sourly, but he hadn’t been expecting to go hiking today.

The man made an odd noise and Crowley looked over his shoulder to see him staring at the roof. He got the feeling the blonde man was very deliberately not looking at him as he got dressed. 

“I promise I won’t look if you won’t,” Crowley said, straight-faced. 

The man’s eyes widened, darting to where Crowley was standing in nothing but a pair of pants and then away again. “I don’t—I didn’t—I wasn’t—” 

“Just making a little joke, all right?”

The man finally relinquished his hold on the suitcase and unzipped it. “Everything in here is sopping wet too.”

He was right, the rain had been so heavy on the walk up that the suitcase and its contents were sodden. A few more pairs of checked shirts, another pair of beige trousers, tartan pyjamas. 

“Spread it out and it’ll dry by morning,” Crowley said. 

The man’s shivering had turned into shudders now and he was very pale. 

“Look,” Crowley added. “I’m not... a pervert or anything.” _Well, not that much of one_. “But you really need to get out of those clothes.”

The man nodded, and Crowley turned his back on him again. 

“I’m sorry,” the man said, a moment later. “It’s been quite a day. This is not... not what I usually do.”

“No, really?” Crowley said, pretending to find something fascinating in his bag as he listened to the sounds of the man getting undressed. “What do you usually do then?”

“I’m... a writer...” the man was obviously shaking uncontrollably now from the sound of his voice. His teeth were actually chattering. 

Crowley risked a glance. The man had taken off his coat and waistcoat and bow tie and was struggling with his buttons with his shaking hands. He obviously needed help.

“Not a pervert, remember?” Crowley said, stepping up to him and helping him with the remaining buttons before the man could object. He was wearing a plain white undershirt, which officially made him the most ridiculous person Crowley had ever met. 

But this close, Crowley could see he had lovely eyes.

“Oh, but I might be,” the man replied, looking away, his face going pink. 

“You’re freezing is what you are,” Crowley pushed the silver emergency blanket into his hands. “Get the rest of your stuff off and wrap yourself in that.”

He politely turned his back again, because he really wasn’t a pervert, even if he wanted to be. 

The problem was it had been a while, he told himself, and he’d been out here in his little cottage working away on his artefacts for ... two years? Only making the odd trip into the village, and Craigmuir wasn’t really a hotbed of activity for anyone under the age of 65. 

He fished a few more things out of his bag, including a half-full bottle of whiskey and a small bag of pot, which at least would help pass the time. He checked his watch—it was barely 6pm. Jesus H. Christ, it was going to be a long night. 

When Crowley turned around the man had wrapped the emergency blanket around himself completely except for his bare feet. He was regarding his shoes sadly.

“They were Italian,” he said, mournfully, and Crowley laughed, a little meanly. 

“They’re going to be even worse after we hike fifteen kilometres tomorrow. Protein bar? You can have chocolate or peanut butter, or chocolate, or peanut butter.”

The man shuffled himself carefully to sit in front of the fire. He was still shivering, and his breath steamed in the air. “Chocolate, I suppose.”

“I also,” Crowley said, holding up the whiskey and the pot, “have these.” With that he unscrewed the lid of the bottle and took a deep swig, then held it towards the man. 

He carefully snaked one arm out of the space blanket and took the bottle. 

It had definitely been far too long without any company but his own hand, because Crowley couldn’t help but notice the man’s carefully filed nails, the blunt shape of his fingers, the dusting of hair across his solid forearm. 

_Right. I am definitely, actually, a giant pervert._

“More of a wine drinker myself,” the man said, “but needs must.” He drank, then spluttered. Crowley grinned without humour. He had been reduced to drinking the cheap stuff, and it tasted horrible.

They passed the bottle back and forth a few more times, ate their protein bars, and listened to the steady sound of the rain on the bothy’s roof. 

“So. What’s your name?” Crowley asked. 

The man muttered something.

“Sorry?”

“It’s... it’s Aziraphale. Aziraphale Wilder,” he said, and then spelled it out, with the resigned tones of someone used to doing so. “My parents were... a bit religious. I have two brothers... Zebediah and Micah. And my sisters are Tribulation, Chastity and Anathema.”

At that, the man—Aziraphale, what a name, poor sod—made a face, and rubbed at his face with one hand. “My littlest sister, Anathema. She’s the reason I’m here actually. I need to help her. So I really need to get back to civilization tomorrow. And then I can... just take you to a bank, and give you... I don’t know, whatever you want. What was your car worth? Would ten thousand pounds cover it?”

Crowley choked a bit on the whiskey. “Close enough,” he said, thinking to the fact that he’d paid about 800 quid for it. 

With that revelation, he decided it was time for the pot. He found his lighter and lit one of the joints. “Do you smoke?” 

“Well, I went to university,” Aziraphale said, fingers crinkling the edges of the emergency blanket. 

Crowley took a drag and passed him the joint, watching as he fussily inhaled in the manner of someone who hadn’t smoked anything for quite some time. 

It was fully dark now, nothing but the glow of firelight illuminating the hut’s rough interior. Crowley felt the whiskey and the pot loosening everything, all the muscles he hadn’t realised were clenched tight. 

“So you’re an archaeologist?” Aziraphale asked, slurring. His eyes were heavy and tired.

“Something like that.”

“What are you looking for?”

“I’m looking for... for a shortcut.” Crowley shut his eyes and took another drag, before flicking the very end of the joint into the fire.

“A shortcut? To what?”

Crowley reached for his backpack, not quite sure what he was doing or why, but too far gone to resist whatever this urge was. He pulled out the postcard he carried with him everywhere and passed it over. The postcard showed a little white-washed house on a verdant green hill. Beyond the hill was the ocean, white breakers giving way to the pure endless blue of the deep sea. Crowley had bought it years ago in a tourist shop somewhere, after his third or fourth stint in remand. Some counsellor or other had suggested collecting images of positive goals for a life beyond prison, and he’d liked the way the cottage seemed to glow on the hillside. It looked warm, and inviting, and safe. 

“Want to get my own cottage. Somewhere on the ocean. I need to get enough cash saved up so I can support myself and paint,” Crowley said as Aziraphale studied the postcard. 

The space blanket was drifting lower now and revealed more of Aziraphale’s neck, the shallow divot at the base of his throat, and a hint of shoulder. He looked, Crowley thought, invitingly soft. Like something he could sink his teeth into. His chest hair was as pale as his head, and Crowley thought about what it might be like to run his fingers through it. 

_Pull yourself together, you daft idjit_. 

“You’re a painter?” Aziraphale asked, voice soft and low. It was a nice voice.

“Not much now. But I want to be.” The conversation really was veering uncomfortably close to something too personal, but he couldn’t seem to stop himself from talking. “I like the ocean. Want to paint these real big canvases, just waves, that sort of thing. Just trying to get enough money together to do it. You know, get away from people, just paint all the time. Maybe sell a few. But that’s not the point.”

“All by yourself? Sounds lonely,” Aziraphale replied, a little archly, and Crowley remembered that they didn’t know each other, and this man had crashed into his car, and the spell was broken.

He took the postcard back from Aziraphale’s hand and carefully stashed it in the inside pocket of his backpack. He felt like a fool for sharing too much now, and was glad the low light in the bothy disguised his hot face. “I like my own company.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“It’s fine. Anyway. We should get to sleep.” Crowley stood and unzipped the sleeping bag so it folded out, big enough for two. “You can have the mat, but we have to share the sleeping bag.”

Aziraphale made an expression that Crowley could only describe as horrified.

“Pardon?”

“We’re all out of firewood, and it’s going to go below freezing tonight, so you know. Body heat and all. Feel free to sit there all night if you want though.”

He lay on the sleeping platform next to the mat and shut his eyes. Part of him hoped Aziraphale wouldn’t take up his offer. And another part of him hoped he would. 

The space blanket rustled. “Well. Ah. I. I don’t even know your name.”

“You didn’t ask, did you?” Crowley muttered. “It’s Crowley. Anthony J. Crowley. But everyone just calls me Crowley.”

He felt the tug on the sleeping bag as Aziraphale lay down beside him, not quite touching, and Crowley deliberately rolled away from him, as far as he could get without running out of bag. 

This was the weirdest fucking moment of his life, and Crowley’d had some very weird things happen to him over the years.

“What’s the J stand for?” Aziraphale said after a moment, his voice startling close. He then let out what was actually a laugh, the breath blowing on Crowley’s neck. _Fuck_. “I know, let me guess. Jovial? Jocular? Jester? Jaunty?” 

“Jaded,” Crowley replied, trying to ignore how close the other man was. This was fucking ridiculous, and he didn’t need any of it in his life. “Or maybe Jesus, what a day. I woke up this morning, thought I knew what was headed my way, and then you literally drove all my plans off a cliff. And most of my merchandise. And I was supposed to have a meeting in town, which I’ve blown. And Gabriel is not the sort of guy you want to cross, so that’ll be a huge mess to sort out. What a bloody day.”

At that, the other man let out a snore. 

* * *

Aziraphale didn’t wake so much as come to, groggily, with a sense of confusion and the overpowering need to find the loo. His face was cold but his back was delightfully warm.

That was when he had the startling, and not entirely unpleasant, realization that he was being cuddled up to. An arm was slung around his waist and _good lord_ was that a (long and bony) leg pressed against the back of his thighs. It was. It very much was, and it was disorienting, and, confusingly, rather nice. And he was enjoying it. Or at least _parts of him_ were. Rather more than was at all decent. 

He lay very still for a while.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d woken up like this, curled up with someone. It was lovely and also another humiliating moment on top of all of yesterday’s awful humiliating moments.

He carefully and awkwardly eased himself out of the bed. 

He really didn’t want to wake his erstwhile bed companion while sporting an extremely obvious erection. Luckily, Crowley just rolled into the sleeping bag further, and then didn’t move.

At least Aziraphale’s clothes were dry, and he dressed as quickly and as quietly as he could, his breath frosting in the air. The fire must have died out in the night, and the air bit into his skin, but he could see sunlight outside. And while his shoes were still damp, they were no longer squelching. 

It took him a moment to realise there was absolutely no way the hut had indoor plumbing, so he put on his coat and headed outside. The sun was up and shining over the mountains, and the gorse glittered with droplets of water in the morning light. It was beautiful, and for a moment Aziraphale stood gazing out at the world spread before him, and things didn’t seem so bad.

Until he entered the outhouse, which, as he discovered as he opened the door, was unspeakable. A doorway to hell. It smelled like... like something he didn’t want to think about. The door was chinked and draughty, and didn’t shut properly, and made a very loud noise when it was opened and shut, but at least the indignity of it took care of his minor problem from before. 

He was just about to walk out again when he heard noises, footsteps, distant at first, but crunching nearer. Some instinct told him the heavy gait wasn’t Crowley, and he felt a shiver of unease.

Then someone spoke.

“Oi, you,” a voice said, and there was something about that voice stopped Aziraphale from opening the door. “Are you here by yourself?”

“What?” Crowley’s more familiar voice replied. “Who are you?”

“I’m with the police and I’m looking for someone. Man called Aziraphale Wilder.”

Aziraphale put his eye to one of the gaps in the door and saw, to his horror, the odd looking man from the airport yesterday. That couldn’t be a coincidence, could it?

And there was Crowley, standing at the bothy’s door, dressed once more in his black jeans, leaning against the door frame as though it was his own home.

“Got some identification?” he said, casually.

The pale man shifted his jacket to reveal a gun. _Oh dear god. A gun. It was a gun. It was a gun._

“That’s my identification,” he sneered.

“Right,” Crowley said, not moving from his careful slouch. Aziraphale was impressed by how calm he seemed, while at the same time wondering if he should step out of the loo, and also feeling desperately sure he wouldn’t be able to make himself. 

He should, he _really_ should, because after the car incident, Crowley would definitely prefer not to be shot on Aziraphale’s account. But his feet remained stubbornly planted to the spot.

And Crowley was probably just about to say, “yes, he’s in the outhouse” and this would all be over anyway. Because Aziraphale was sure the shabby man wasn’t from the police, and wasn’t there for a nice little chat about the weather. 

_Move, you coward,_ he told himself. He took as deep a breath as he dared, and put his hand on the door handle.

“Look, it’s just me here,” Crowley said in that exact moment. “I’ve been hiking. Just stopped for the night. Going to keep going shortly.”

“Well. Mind if I look around?” The shabby man said, menacingly, and Aziraphale put his eye back to the hole in the door. 

Crowley had his hands held up in the universal language of someone who doesn’t want to be shot. “You’re the one the gun, you can do what you want.”

Then he opened the door of the bothy, and the man with the gun stepped in. As soon as he was inside, Crowley flung a look over his shoulder. Aziraphale very slowly opened the door to keep it from squealing and cautiously eased himself out. His heart was hammering so loudly in his chest he felt sure the man would hear it and return with his gun.

Crowley pulled an exaggerated face at him and made a twirling motion with a finger, and then went into the bothy after the man.

Did the gesture mean... go back inside the outhouse? Surely the man would check it next? Or did Crowley mean for him to run away? He’d be spotted any direction on the moors? Or maybe he’d meant for Aziraphale to go _around_ the shack?

Yes, around the shack, that had to be it. 

He crept out of the outhouse, moved around to the far side of the bothy as quietly as he could, and crouched down against the wall.

A moment later he heard the telltale screech of the outhouse door opening, and then footsteps crunching around the other side of the hut.

“I told you,” Crowley‘s voice carried easily in the quiet morning, “there’s no-one else here and I haven’t seen anyone for days.”

“Why’d you want to go creeping around out here in the rain? That’s a stupid hobby if I ever heard one,” the other man replied, sourly.

“Keeps me away from the madding crowd.”

“And you don’t know anything about why Wilder’s car was crashed just down there?”

“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about. I just want to eat my protein bar and get on. Got a fifteen kilometre leg today.” 

“Right. Well, for your own safety, I’d suggest you do that post-haste. And don’t think about calling the cops.”

“I thought you said you were a cop?”

There was a moment of silence. 

“I am,” the pale man finally growled. “So there’s no point in calling any other cops, is there?”

“No,” Crowley said, in a placating tone. “I absolutely won’t.”

“Right. Well. Thank you for assisting with our inquiries. Sir.”

The men crunched around the front of the bothy and their backs came into view. As quietly as he could, Aziraphale slid himself back around the other corner. He thought for sure the shabby man would hear his rough breathing or his heartbeat, but he stood for what seemed like a very long time like that and nothing happened. 

Then Crowley appeared, his expression thunderous. “You friend’s gone.” 

Aziraphale sagged with relief. “Oh. Thank you. Thank you so much, I really don’t think he was from the police.”

“Really? You don’t say!” Crowley snapped. “So do you want to tell me, then, why some weird dickhead with a gun is looking for you?”

Aziraphale took a deep breath. He owed Crowley that much, at least. “It’s my sister. I mean. I don’t know who that man was, but it’s something to do with my sister, because she’s in trouble. She owns a bookshop, but she’s really a book dealer. First editions, rare print runs, old manuscripts, that sort of thing. Anyway she came up to Aberdeen and the next thing you know I get a phone call from people saying if I want her to be safe I have to deliver a package to them,” he heard himself babbling, but couldn’t seem to stop. “So obviously it must have something to do with a book. Some of them are rather valuable, you know.”

“Yeah, I do,” Crowley replied, in a flat voice. “I’ve done some book dealing. What sort of book is it?”

“Well. I don’t know, I haven’t opened the package. And I’m not going to either. All I am going to do is deliver it, and then Anathema will be fine.”

“So you’ve got the book here?”

“Well, yes. It’s in my bag, it’s well-wrapped though so I am sure it’s dry.”

Crowley stepped away from him and ran a hand through his hair. It was out now, and fell to his shoulders in soft waves, and Aziraphale had the wildly inappropriate urge to touch it, and see if it was as soft as it looked.

It really would have been better if he’d crashed into someone else’s car, he thought miserably. 

Crowley seemed to come to some sort of decision. “Right, come inside, we’ll wait a bit, give that dickhead time to get away from us a bit, and then we’ll get going.”

Aziraphale nodded, and followed him in. 

* * *

It was too much of a coincidence, Crowley thought as he grimly chewed on his protein bar. 

He’d told Aziraphale that he’d dealt a few rare books. But dealing was the wrong word entirely. Forging. That was the accurate term. He’d _forged_ a few manuscripts. And stolen, that was another word you could use, although he’d tried to keep that to a minimum. Whip up a decent copy, sneak the original out before anyone noticed, and Bob was your uncle. 

And there was only one person who Crowley knew of anywhere near here who would possibly be interested in rare books, and if Aziraphale was mixed up in Gabriel’s business, then what Crowley should do is dump him at the nearest farmhouse and forget this whole thing ever happened.

Gabriel was bad news, the worst sort of news, the kind of news that came with, at best, a long incarceration, and at worst, missing persons. But he was also Crowley’s best paying customer. 

He also considered himself a man of refinement and taste, and while his main business was something shady and unpleasant that Crowley didn’t care to know too much about, he also had a steady sideline in stolen art and artefacts, as well as fake antiquities, forging various things, and, also, apparently, smuggling real dinosaur bones out of Mongolia. He had one of the most complete tyrannosaur skeletons in the world in his billiards room. 

Crowley was one of his best art and antiquities fakers, or so he said, but then again the man who’d introduced Crowley to Gabriel in the first place, another art faker, had disappeared a few years back. 

Lucius, his name had been. Crowley had hoped he’d ended up living on some tropical island somewhere a long way away, but who knew? You lay down with dogs, you ended up with fleas, or worse, sometimes you ended up being gnawed on like an old bone, and buried in the woods.

So. Gabriel had presumably kidnapped this man’s sister, and now he had to deliver the package to Gabriel or the sister would start losing her toes. Which meant Crowley was better off as far away from the whole business as possible.

Crowley was a criminal, but he wasn’t _that_ sort of criminal. He’d done his time in gaol when he’d been barely more than a kid, after stealing some cars and generally being a nuisance. But after that he’d figured out how to keep himself out of trouble. 

And yes, forgery _was_ a crime, technically, but it wasn’t like he dealt drugs or burgled old ladies or robbed banks with a stocking over his head.

He would have said, if anyone had asked Crowley to justify himself, that he was more like a stockbroker than a mobster. He was good at parting people from money they obviously didn’t need anyway. What sort of an idiot would try to buy authentic Lewis chess pieces or a Leonardo da Vinci sketch on eBay? 

He was, if he even squinted at things, a Robin Hood type. Except in his case, he was the poor that he was robbing the rich to help. 

Men with guns were a different thing entirely, far too close to the bodies-in-vats side of the criminal underworld. 

Yep. Crowley would ditch Aziraphale as soon as possible and run. Getting any further involved in this mess was too dangerous. Even if the man was obviously in so far over his head he was drowning, and definitely in need of rescuing, and even if he seemed sort of sweet, and even if he was kind of pretty, and even if Crowley could all-too-easily imagine what it might be like to kiss him...

And maybe it was time for Crowley to consider his own escape plan. The car crash, the man with the gun, the whole disastrous day might be the nearest thing he would ever get to a sign from The Almighty that it was time to get out of the game.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	3. The Book Of Angels

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And there was only one sofa bed! 
> 
> Thank you again to Summerofspock for the beta. Thanks also to the GOEvents server for the discussion of historical lube.

They walked onwards—ever onwards—and Aziraphale tried not to watch Crowley. 

It was impossible. He had to look at something, and the scenery was very nice, but it was growing a little repetitive. So the main thing he saw, usually slightly ahead of him, was those legs, those angular shoulders, long arms, rust-red hair yanked back from that annoyingly long neck and pulled messily into a pony tail. 

He sternly reminded himself that Anathema was in danger, and he was too. He was also starving, and the protein bar had done nothing to help in that regard. 

He wasn’t going to complain though. Not even about the blisters. Or the ache in his arms from lugging his suitcase. Or the pinch of hunger in his belly. 

Crowley had, after looking at a map he’d produced from somewhere, led them off the road and along a trail that wound roughly along the same route.

“Should we stay on the road and try to flag down a car?” Aziraphale had asked.

“And risk running into that wankstain with the gun again?” Crowley had muttered.

Aziraphale was forced to concede that was the sensible course of action. “I’m sorry,” he said, out of habit. “This is all very new to me. I don’t mix with the criminal element as a general rule.”

Crowley had shot him a look he hadn’t been able to decipher, but he’d felt rebuked by it anyway.

Crowley hadn’t really spoken since then, and he seemed quite content to walk ahead of him in silence, only glancing back occasionally. He was inscrutable behind his dark sunglasses. Sometimes he’d end up quite far ahead, but he’d usually stop before too long and wait for Aziraphale to catch up.

It wasn’t as if Aziraphale wasn’t well-acquainted with certain sorts of misery. But this sort of misery was entirely new; hiking multiple kilometres across fields of heather in his formerly best pair of brogues, while trying very hard not to think about how he’d woken up this morning. And he was still dragging his suitcase, which had earned him another scornful look from Crowley.

Of course, he was also deeply worried about Anathema, and after the encounter with the pale man in the trench coat, he was truly afraid for his life. The worst part was that he’d dragged another human into his mess. Crowley didn’t deserve it, even if he was the grumpiest person Aziraphale had ever met. 

Who could blame him, really, for being grumpy under the circumstances? Although it might be nice if he toned it down just a shade. It wasn’t as if Aziraphale had done any of this on purpose. 

But he was also accidentally charming, every so often. And so much more good looking than he had any right to be.

At least, Aziraphale told himself, it wasn’t raining any more. The sun came and went as clouds scudded past, and the wind was somewhere between freezing and polar vortex, but he was dry. 

He checked his pocket-watch (somehow still working despite the soaking it had received yesterday). It was past 1pm, but he didn’t bother asking how far they’d come or how far they had yet to go. 

Crowley must have seen him fiddling with his watch, because he stopped abruptly. “‘Nother protein bar?” he asked, shedding his backpack gracefully.

Aziraphale was determined not to complain, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t also going to take a rest when it was offered. He set the blasted suitcase down and let himself drop onto it weakly. 

“No, thank you,” he said. “I think when we get to the village I’m going to find the greasiest cafe I can and simply inhale a bowl of chips.”

Crowley handed him a water bottle and Aziraphale drank from it gratefully. 

“There’s quite a nice pub in Craigmuir and they do a stew and kailkenny thing. It’s good. You should have that.”

“A what?”

Crowley gave him an almost smile, a slight twitch of his mouth that made Aziraphale wonder what his actual, genuine laugh might be like. 

“It’s like colcannon, or you know, bubble and squeak. Cabbage and tatties.” The way he said tatties was quite possibly the most endearing thing Aziraphale had heard from his mouth, and he found himself trying not to smile at him. Crowley didn’t have much of a Scottish accent, just a slight softening around the edges, a curl around the “r” sounds, but he couldn’t place where else he was from. It was the accent of someone who worked hard to fit in wherever he was. Generic, almost. Forgettable. 

“Sounds delightful,” Aziraphale said. “I am terribly hungry. I could eat a horse and chase the jockey.”

“If you’ve got that much energy, we better get on,” Crowley stretched his arms over his head, revealing an expanse of his mid-section between his t-shirt and those snug black jeans, a trail of hair above his belt buckle several shades more orange than the auburn of his head.

Oh good. Now Aziraphale was thinking about following the line down beneath the waistband of his jeans. He imagined running his finger down beneath the fly of his jeans, before he managed to avert his eyes to a nearby mountain, while chiding himself. Again. This wasn’t some holiday, some romp in a meadow, some ridiculous scene from one of his books. It was serious, and he shouldn’t be distracting himself like this. Even if he wanted to push Crowley down into the heather and rip his trousers off. 

They made their way onwards down the trail for what felt like another thousand hours. 

“What do you write then?” Crowley said, out of nowhere.

“Ah,” Aziraphale always hated that question. “Novels. I’m working on my fifteenth.”

He hoped that would be enough information and Crowley wouldn’t ask for more details. 

He wasn’t ashamed. He wasn’t. It was just that he knew all too well what would happen to Crowley’s face when he explained it. _ I write gay romance novels,  _ he’d say, and Crowley would raise one of those elegant eyebrows in badly-concealed derision.

He knew from experience that his work—and damn it, it was work, he laboured over his books—was seen as rather déclassé. As tacky and tawdry and silly. Pornography for middle-aged women, one reviewer had called it. Which Aziraphale had rather resented, because it wasn’t as if his stories didn’t have plots and emotions and characters. And yes, sex. But it was as if writing about love, in all its manifestations, wasn’t a skill like any other. 

_ You should try writing that many love scenes and making each one different and interesting and actually provocative,  _ he chided his mental picture of Crowley. Even his fantasy version of Crowley didn’t seem to like him very much, and that was also understandable, because Aziraphale didn’t like himself very much right now either. He felt utterly ridiculous, in his leather-soled shoes and waistcoat. Marching about the countryside like a fool because he’d been too idiotic to remember a phone charger.

Of course, Crowley had apparently decided it was the perfect time to be chatty, right when Aziraphale’s feet felt as if they were going to drop off and take what was left of his self-esteem with them. 

“What sort of novels?” he said over his shoulder.

“Ah. Well. All sorts, really. The one I’m writing is actually a Western.”

“With cowboys? And horses? And gunfights?” Crowley shot him another dubious look over his shoulder, as if to say,  _ doesn’t seem like your style. _

“Indeed.” Aziraphale shifted the weight of his suitcase. He was this close to throwing it down the hill, littering laws be damned.

“And you make money doing that then?” 

“It’s a living,” Aziraphale replied airily. “Look, is that a house?”

And, thank whatever deity was watching out for Aziraphale, it was. A cottage, small and rather dreary, a plume of smoke rising from the chimney. 

Aziraphale immediately began praying to that same deity for a cup of tea. 

A woman with shockingly bright crimson hair opened the door almost before Crowley had his hand up to knock.

“Look at you two drowned rats!" she said cheerfully.

“Yeah, look, we had a bit of a car accident—” Crowley began, and she gave a little gasp.

“Oh no, come in, come in, you poor dears!” She threw the door open wide and waved them inside.

Crowley made an odd hissing noise as they tromped into the cottage, and a moment later Aziraphale saw why—the entire place looked as though there’d been an invasion of feral teddy bears. Every surface was covered by a bear or bear-related item. Decorative plates. Posters. Needlepoints. Cushions. A large velvet Elvis painting, except Elvis was a teddy bear.

It was also warm, and there was a sofa, and the woman was practically a psychic, because a moment later he had a cup of tea in his hands and found himself pushed into a softness of teddy bear themed cushions.

“Listen, can we—” Crowley said, but the woman bustled out and then came back a moment later with a packet of hobnobs.

“Now, how can I help?” She handed the packet to Aziraphale, who took four without any regret whatsoever. 

“Can I use your phone?” Crowley said, waving away the biscuits.

“Oh sorry, love,” the woman smiled. “We don’t have one. My Shadwell doesn’t believe in them. Says the government can listen in.”

Aziraphale and Crowley looked at each other. 

“Is there... any way we could trouble you for some sort of transportation?” Aziraphale said, carefully. “As we said, we’ve had a little crash, and we really need to get to Craigmuir as soon as possible.“

The woman was staring at him, quite intently, and suddenly her whole face lit up. “It’s you! You’re Aziraphale Wilder!”

“Ye-es,” Aziraphale said, but she’d already leapt up again and dashed out of the room.

“You’ve got a fan,” Crowley said, drily. 

There were indistinct noises from another room and then a moment later the woman reappeared with a stack of books. Aziraphale’s books. All fourteen of them, in a towering pile of paperbacks.

“I can’t believe it,” she chatted, happily. “You’re in my house. I had a premonition this morning! Marjorie, I said to myself when I woke up, today is going to be an unusual day, and I was right.”

She put the stack of books on the coffee table in front of them. “I have all of them. Except your new one, the one you’re writing now. I can’t wait for it. I just love your books so much. I can’t even tell you what they’ve meant to me. I know it’s a terrible imposition, but could you please sign them for me?”

Aziraphale stared at the stack, and he could see that Crowley was looking at them too. 

The covers (more pecs than a calendar full of firemen, Anathema had once said). The titles (the readers like to know what they’re getting, he’d replied). His name (why on earth hadn’t he written under a pseudonym?).

_ The Angel’s Heart. Paradise Bound. Taste of Heaven. The Chains of Love.  _ Etcetera, etcetera.

As Marjorie continued speaking, Crowley reached out and picked up one of the books, and turned it over. Aziraphale was not ashamed, except now of course he desperately was, and wanted to hide his face in one of the teddy bears beside him on the sofa. 

Crowley’s face was studiously blank in the manner of someone trying very hard not to smile, the faintest twist to the corner of his mouth. 

Aziraphale had thought, only yesterday, he might die of shame, but now it seemed that he was doomed to live through all manner of exciting new ignominies. 

“It’s just... you’re my favourite novelist of all time, and you’re in my house. It’s such an honour,” Marjorie was saying as Aziraphale came back into his body. 

“That’s very very kind.” Aziraphale forced himself to smile at her. She didn’t seem to notice it was nearer a grimace.

“And I didn’t know you had a boyfriend!” She beamed at them both. 

At least that wiped the smug look from Crowley’s face. “No, no, we’re not—” he said, with only a hint of desperation. 

“Just acquaintances,” Aziraphale said firmly, wishing that Crowley’s discomfort with the idea that someone might mistake them for a couple wasn’t quite so obvious. 

Of course someone like Crowley, someone tall and angular and good looking and stylish and nice smelling and oddly charming in an irascible way, wouldn’t be interested in him. 

Marjorie gave them what he could only describe as a twinkle. “Well, you never know where love will blossom, do you?”

“Absolutely nothing is blossoming,” Aziraphale said, as firmly as he could manage without being rude. “Please... Marjorie, I am more than happy to sign these books for you, but the thing is we’re in a bit of a pickle, and we rather need some way to get to town. It is quite urgent for both of us. What do you suggest?”

“I’d drive you but Shadwell has the little mule,” she said, cryptically, then laughed at the look on his face. “That’s my car, silly! Anyway, he’s over at Jock’s house, and they have their little meeting. They like to talk about their little conspiracies, you know, and then he always drinks too much whiskey and stays the night. Gives me a chance to catch up on my stories.” At that she patted the stack of books. “So he won’t be back til the morning, I’m afraid.”

Crowley made an incoherent sound and rubbed at his face. 

“And,” Aziraphale continued, doggedly, even though his feet were killing him and he really didn’t want to leave the warmth of the bear-encrusted sofa, “how far would it be to walk to the next farmhouse?”

“Oh about five miles, love. You won’t get there before dark,” Marjorie said. Outside, the sun was already low in the sky, and Aziraphale suspected he probably wouldn’t get there at all. “You’d be welcome to stay the night, and then we can drive you to town in the morning.” 

Aziraphale looked at Crowley, and Crowley glanced at him in return.

“You’re the one with the deadline,” Crowley said in a resigned way. 

“That sounds just lovely,” Aziraphale said. He tried not to let his voice wobble. And he tried not to feel as though he’d betrayed Anathema, again. 

* * *

“I’m sure you don’t mind sharing, do you?” Marjorie said as she wrangled the ancient fold out sofa in her spare room into position. It was narrower than a double bed, and sagged in the middle, but it was slightly better than a narrow strip of foam and a sleeping bag. 

“Of course not,” Aziraphale said weakly, and Crowley pulled a face that suggested he really did mind but wasn’t going to argue.

Marjorie had fed them baked beans on toast and sherry in bovril, and Aziraphale had consumed both with the appetite of a man who’d eaten nothing more than protein bars and malteasers in the last day. She’d also carried on quite the conversation through dinner, peppering Aziraphale with questions about his new book. He’d laid out the whole plot for her, feeling his neck burning as Crowley had sat and listened with that smug almost smile. 

Despite that, he’d answered her every question about where his inspiration came from, his research methods, if he’d ever thought about a film adaptation of one of his books, her own fantasy casting for said cinematic masterpiece, and so on. Eventually, she’d stopped talking and looked at their faces and then bustled them down a narrow hallway to this small back room. 

“Bathroom’s this way, love,” Marjorie said after she’d spread out the sheets, and Crowley followed without comment. He returned later with wet hair and smelling faintly of shampoo—like flowers or fake apples—dressed in a faded old t-shirt and worn tracksuit bottoms, and fell face first onto the bed dramatically.

“Hot water’s on the way out,” he said into the pillow.

At least, Aziraphale thought as he stood in the tiny bathroom a few minutes later, he could have a shower and put on clean pyjamas and brush his teeth. Even if the water pressure was terrible and the temperature lukewarm at best. 

He stood under the weak, tepid shower and tried not to think about the fact that he only had three days left to deliver the package. It was all going to be fine. 

When the water became truly cold, he climbed out of the tub and dried himself with a small and very scratchy towel. He longed for his own home, and his sister, and a very large glass of wine.

Back in Marjorie’s small back room, Crowley had already climbed into the sofa bed, and was reading by the light of a small faux-Tiffany lamp. He had a book tucked up against his knees, and didn’t look up when Aziraphale came in.

And then Aziraphale saw what he was reading.

It was his third book,  _ His Devilish Desires.  _

He’d been proud of it when he’d first written it, but now he wished he’d never written a word in his life. 

“Crowley—” he said.

“Shhh!” Crowley held up a hand. “I’m just getting to a good bit.” He made a show of licking his finger and turning a page. 

“Put that away,” Aziraphale said. “Please. You don’t need to read it.”

Crowley glanced up at him. “But I’m enjoying it,” he said, utterly straight-faced.

“You are not!” 

“I am. The stable hand just met the Duke and they’re making eyes at each other over a horse’s bum. Thrilling stuff.”

“Please, Crowley. It’s bad enough that I’ve ruined your car and had to spend not one but two nights sleeping in extremely close quarters with you, and now you’re going to...make fun of me!’ Aziraphale tried very hard not to sound like an overgrown child and failed. 

Crowley looked at him coolly. “First off, I’m not making fun of you. Secondly, why would you write a book if you didn’t want anyone to read it?”

“I do want people to read it, just not you!” 

“Why not me? I’m enjoying it! It’s very descriptive. I never realised you could spend a whole page on one blow job.”

Aziraphale pressed his eyes together shut as tightly as he could and tried not to consider Crowley and anything at all connected to blow jobs. This couldn’t go on. He’d just take the book away. So he lunged across the bed to grab it. But Crowley twisted it away and held it above his head, and somehow Aziraphale ended up sprawled almost in his lap. 

“Give it to me!” 

“No!”

Aziraphale reached for it again and instead found himself shoved so hard he toppled off the bed, grabbing at Crowley as he went. It didn’t arrest his fall, instead, to his horror Crowley landed on top of him. 

“You mad bastard!” Crowley said, but he was laughing, actually laughing, in a way that lit up his whole face. But he still had the book clutched to his chest. 

“Please! It’s bad enough that you’re...” Aziraphale’s treacherous brain supplied several adjectives, most of them synonyms for  _ gorgeous.  _ “You’re sitting on me.”

Crowley laughed again, and it made Aziraphale feel overheated and strange. “You started it. I was just trying to read a very exciting book.”

“Please, please get off me,” Aziraphale said, because Crowley’s weight and the way it was pressing into him was deeply unsettling. He was far too close, still-damp hair framing his angular face, his eyes a lovely, light honey colour. A shade or two darker than amber, but not quite chestnut. This close, Aziraphale could see each of his ridiculously long eyelashes, could have counted the freckles scattered across the bridge of his nose and sharp cheekbones, could have lifted his head slightly and nipped at Crowley’s bottom lip.

For one thrilling second he let himself imagine he was the sort of man brave enough to simply kiss someone. 

But he wasn’t. 

Crowley levered himself off in a way that pressed some of him even harder against Aziraphale, which was definitely not at all something that he would think about at a later time, when he was alone. Then he handed Aziraphale the novel.

“Thank you,” Aziraphale said, stiffly. He returned to the other side of the bed, and lay down, facing away from Crowley. He could already feel the combination of gravity and the sag in the mattress dragging him towards the centre of the bed, closer to Crowley’s long legs. He wasn’t quite exhausted enough not to care.

“You know I wasn’t really poking fun at you,” Crowley said after a long stretch of silence. “Never really read a book like that before. You know. An erotic book.”

“It’s not erotica, it’s romance.”

“Seemed pretty erotic to me,” Crowley said. “I got up to the bit where they had sex in the woods. Always seemed a bit risky, sex in the woods. You’d have a really high chance of getting a stick somewhere you didn’t want it. And another thing...” The sofa bed shifted and creaked as Crowley moved, sliding himself down. “What did they use for lube back then?”

“Spit. Or oil,” Aziraphale replied, softly.  _ This is just a conversation about lube happening between two acquaintances in a sofa bed, it’s nothing, nothing at all. You don’t even know if he likes men.  _

“No little tub of Vaseline in the saddlebags then?” 

“It wasn’t invented until 1872. But did you know in Japan they made personal lubricant out of grated yams?” he gave a weak chuckle at that. “I’ve done quite a bit of research on the topic.”

“Yams. Really.” With that he heard Crowley move again, and then the light clicked, plunging the room into darkness. “Sounds a bit... culinary.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale said into the shadows. “I suppose it does.”

After a stretch of silence, Crowley spoke, one more time. A low, tired drawl. “Look. I’m sorry I read your book. I wasn’t trying to upset you.”

Aziraphale thought it was a mealy-mouthed apology, and gave a small sniff. “Well. Tomorrow we’ll get to the village and get you some money, and then my books and I will be out of your hair for good.”

Then he shut his eyes and gave in to his fatigue.

* * *

Crowley lay still until Aziraphale’s breathing had settled into a slow, heavy rhythm. 

He hadn’t meant to piss him off so much by looking at the book. Had thought it’d be a bit of a lark, really, once he’d seen the covers, with all the muscular bodies on them. 

Aziraphale had reacted as if he’d spat in his face.

It wasn’t as if the book had been bad. Just surprising. Aziraphale seemed as if he should be sitting in some leather armchair at a university somewhere, composing long essays about poetry or dead playwrights or whatever it was professors did. But no, apparently what he actually did was write about cock-sucking in amazing detail. 

Crowley found that he liked that.

Crowley was starting to like Aziraphale. He liked that he’d walked all that way today without complaining. He liked that he’d sat there and answered rapid-fire questions from Marjorie about his books with incredible graciousness. He liked that he’d had the brains to hide this morning. He liked the way he’d carried his stupid little suitcase all the way. He liked how pink he’d gone when they’d rolled off the bed and landed on the floor. 

He’d liked the way Aziraphale had felt under him. 

And that made what he was about to do even shittier. 

He eased himself out of the sofa bed, which squeaked and rocked treacherously even as he tried to be careful. Aziraphale stirred slightly and gave a sigh, but didn’t wake. He found the man’s satchel in the dark, crept into the tiny kitchen, snapped on the light, and opened the bag. 

He really shouldn’t do this. But he was going to, anyway.

The package was obviously a book, and it was sealed thoroughly in a plastic mailing bag wrapped in tape. 

Crowley carefully, quietly, opened several drawers in the pokey little brown kitchen, until he found a sharp knife and then, as he’d hoped he would, a roll of clear tape. He carefully sliced the top of the mailing bag open, trying to do so cleanly. He lifted the book out and put it gently on the table.

Fuck.

He wasn’t a true expert in books, not really, even though he’d forged a few. But he knew enough to know what this might be, and roughly how much it was worth. 

The book was small and bound in an embossed leather cover, patterned with elaborate knotwork. Goatskin, Crowley thought. It was a dark, warm red, burnished by centuries of gentle handling.

Even so, he definitely shouldn’t be touching it with his bare hands, so he used the tip of the knife to open the cover, very gently. The pages were brittle and yellowed with age. Inside, the writing was small, elaborately hand-lettered. There were pictures, too, illuminated pages. Vibrant colours, gold leaf, oak gall and lamp black. Lots of saints and Jesus himself. Plenty of angels, too. Crosses, and spirals, and triskeles. All decorated with the elaborate intertwining lines. Insular art, the experts called it. 

Crowley shut the book again, very gently.

If he was correct, it was called the Book of Angels, and it had been missing for 20 years after it had been stolen from a private collection in Switzerland. It had been created by monks at an abbey in Scotland sometime around the 7th century. It was beautiful. 

And it could be worth £15 million on the private market, possibly more. 

He put it back in the package, and sealed it back up with the tape, and slid it back into Aziraphale’s satchel.

He thought of a cottage by the ocean, and a studio of his own, with a big window and lots of natural light. That sort of money would set him up for life. 

_ Fuck.  _

Then he put the satchel back where Aziraphale had left it, and lay back down. 

The other man had somehow managed to roll right into the middle of the lumpy sofa bed, and Crowley was left with the tiniest of strips on the edge of the mattress. He lay down and gave into the gravity, so his back was wedged up against Aziraphale’s solid arm. It wasn’t comfortable, at all, dangling half off the bed.

Or perhaps it was the guilt that made him feel so restless. Either way, he knew sleep was going to be elusive, so he lay there and thought of the sea.


	4. Exit, Pursued By Cows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And there were cows!  
> CW for mild violence, swearing and mentions of sex.  
> Thanks again to Summerofspock for beta-ing and everyone at the GOEvents server for the encouragement.

The worst part of being kidnapped was the boredom. After the terror had worn off, Anathema was mostly left alone. She was locked in a bedroom, and apart from the odd visit from the man she came to call Dickhead Number One, that was it. 

It was a nice enough bedroom, decorated in heavy wooden furniture and chintzy wallpaper. An en-suite bathroom. A view over the grounds of the manor house. Someone had thoughtfully left a stack of Women’s Weekly mags in the room, which she’d read thoroughly on the first day. Then she’d done the crosswords. Then she’d done the cryptic crosswords, which was an absolute last resort. 

Dickhead Number One’s visits were irregular enough, and although they broke the monotony she’d come to despise him thoroughly. He was very big and handsome and white-teethed and, she suspected, an utter sociopath. He would come into her room and loom over her and smile with all those pearly whites and she contemplated stabbing him with the pencil they’d given her for the crosswords, but it wouldn’t do an ounce of good. She’d seen the other goons he had hanging around. She wouldn’t make it to the front door.

At least when she focused on how much she hated him, she wasn’t as worried about Az. Worried less about him anyway.

She loved her brother completely and utterly, but if she had to pick someone to rescue her from kidnappers, she’d have chosen just about anyone else. Someone who could cope with deviations from routine. Someone who didn’t think that going to a different sushi restaurant was far too risky. 

However, if there was one thing Aziraphale was good at, it was doing the right thing. Following the rules. So it was something of a nasty surprise when Dickhead Number One came into her room on the third day post-kidnapping and frowned at her. 

_He probably practised that in the mirror,_ Anathema thought. _How to seem concerned like a real human._

“We have a bit of a problem, Miss Wilder. We’ve lost your brother,” he said, leaning up against the desk, steepling his fingers before him, a concerned expression plastered onto his face.

“What do you mean, you’ve lost him?” 

“I had someone follow him from London to Aberdeen, but then he went...off track.” He gazed out the window in such a way that his jaw looked very square and manly. Anathema’s hatred for him expanded another ten percent. Soon it would encompass the whole world in a vast bubble, she thought grimly. An aura of hatred so big it could be seen from outer space.

“We haven’t heard from him in over 24 hours. We’re a little concerned he may have done something foolish.”

Anathema wondered if his eyeball might pop like a small balloon if she stuck the pencil in it, or if it would be more like stabbing a grape. Aziraphale had told her once what the name of the fluid inside the eyeball was, and now she couldn’t remember. Aqua something. She hoped it wouldn’t come up in a crossword.

“Aziraphale is the most dependable person in the universe,” she said. “He’ll deliver that stupid book, and then you’ll let us go. You did give him a week.”

He adjusted his tie. “Of course. Of course he will. Now, how are they treating you? Food ok?”

Anathema picked up her magazine and her pencil again. “Perfectly fine,” she replied coldly, determined not to show any of the panic she was feeling outwardly. Aziraphale would be here, and it would all be fine, perfectly fine. “My compliments to the chef.”

“Oh, I like you, you little firecracker,” the Dickhead said, and gave her an affectionate pat on the head before leaving. 

As the door locked behind him, Anathema realised that her hatred for him had now consumed the entire solar system. 

* * *

Hastur had spent the night sleeping in the hired Peugeot, which was cold and uncomfortable and made him feel more like punching people than usual. He liked punching people. It made him feel good in a way that nothing else did. And now he wanted to punch multiple people, starting with the soft blonde git who’d disappeared and made his life such a fucking misery. 

He had no idea where the fucking fuck the writer was. 

He’d driven up and down the road twice, and then had to go back to the village to get petrol, and then come back. He’d tried the hut nearest the crash, and there was no-one there other than that sly hiker. (Hiking. What a fucking joke that was. Who hiked? Wankers, that’s who.) So he’d driven a bit further up the road and started knocking on doors.

Ligur reported that the target’s phone was still out of range or whatever. Hastur didn’t know and didn’t care. He hated phones. He hated Scotland. He hated this road. He hated books. He hated everything. 

He really wanted to go somewhere and get drunk, find someone to hurt, and not think about Luke’s expression when he found out Hastur had fucked up this perfectly ordinary job.

When he woke up in his car, he decided to drive back the other direction and go to some more farm houses. Surely one of the backwater idiots in this godforsaken place had seen something. Scotland, full of twits and cows.

The first house was down a twisty road, and he had to drive carefully around the bumps and the potholes to get to it. 

Just as he reached the house he saw a man and a woman coming out of the cottage, and then he hit the jackpot. Because next out of the door was the target himself, dressed in his stupid beige coat and bow tie, pulling a little tartan wheeled suitcase. After him came the red-headed hiking dickhead, which made Hastur feel even more like punching someone, although this time his punching urge was directed firmly at the lanky bastard in the sunglasses. 

As his car moved down the road towards the house, he saw all their heads swivel in his direction. For one long moment, which felt frozen in time, none of them moved. Then the red-haired man yelled and waggled his arms around like an utter fucking muppet and Hastur wasn’t going to reach them before they got in their car, a shitty little red two-door Vauxhall Astra, so he braked hard and jumped out, and pulled out the gun.

He considered, somewhere through his haze of anger, shooting out the tyres. Only then he might hit one of them, and he didn’t really want to have to deal with more dead bodies than just the one. Or two, as he was definitely murdering the fucking hiker too. Luke didn’t like really big messes. And Hastur really didn’t like making Luke angry. 

So he raised the gun, thumbed off the safety, and squeezed a shot into the air above their heads.

In Hastur’s opinion, there were few situations that couldn’t be solved with violence. This turned out to be one of them. The gunshot cracked through the air and the four people below him started like wild animals and were in the car in a flash. He swore and fired another shot into the air, but it was too late, and the little red car shot past him up the lane.

“Fuck!” he screamed, and dived back into the Peugeot 

* * *

Aziraphale’s dreams had always been vivid. 

This one started innocuously enough. He was in a jungle, surrounded by enormous lush trees, huge monstera plants and tangling vines, and for some reason a lot of parrots. He walked through the jungle for some time, until he came across a bridge across a canyon. He knew he had to cross the canyon. But planks were falling from the bridge, plunging into the wild waters far below. Somehow Crowley was there, and took his hand. 

“You can do this,” Crowley had said and stepped onto the bridge. 

But the bridge collapsed, and Aziraphale flung his arms around Crowley in terror. Somehow Crowley grabbed a vine and they were swinging across the canyon instead, as if they were in an Indiana Jones film. 

In the manner of dreams, everything shifted, and this time they were somewhere dark and close and vague and warm. Crowley’s shirt was gone, and his hair was loose around his shoulders, and Aziraphale was in his arms. Crowley said, low and silkily, “I’ve been waiting for you.”

They kissed.

That was all it took for Aziraphale to wake up with a shaking gasp and the sticky and shameful realisation that he’d just come in his pants like a teenaged boy.

The inexorable force of gravity had pulled him and Crowley together into what could really only be described as an embrace. Crowley seemed to like curling up against people in his sleep, and this time he’d wedged himself up against Aziraphale’s chest, and Aziraphale had somehow, in his sleep, draped an arm over the man’s thin shoulders in return. He found himself staring at the top of Crowley’s sleeping head, heart racing from the fact that he’d just had a sex dream about that very man. 

Not that it had been much of a sex dream. He couldn’t even get things right in his dreams. 

He hadn’t time to do anything but open his eyes, blink and feel instant confused shame, before a man burst into the room, yelling in an almost impenetrable Scottish accent. He blustered incomprehensibly as Aziraphale disengaged himself from Crowley’s octopus-like limbs. Crowley woke up in the next moment and threw himself out of the bed like a startled cat, yelling back at the other man in a suddenly much thicker Scottish accent of his own.

Aziraphale took the opportunity to escape to the bathroom, change his clothes, and give his reflection a stern talking to. 

By the time he came out, Crowley was dressed and sitting at Marjorie’s kitchen table, drinking Nescafé. The older Scottish man was also there, and also drinking Nescafé. Marjorie immediately handed Aziraphale a mug as well, and he drank it without pulling too much of a face.

“How did you sleep, dear?” Marjorie asked solicitously. “Weren’t too cramped in there were you?”

“Oh not at all, I slept wonderfully, thank you,” Aziraphale replied. “Very comfortable. Can’t think of when I’ve had a better night’s rest.”

Crowley shot him a look that was almost entirely eyebrow, and Aziraphale felt his face grow warm.

“Aziraphale, this is Shadwell,” Crowley said, neutrally. 

“That’s me,” the other man glowered. “Marjorie tells me you two need a ride into tha’ village.”

“We’d be ever so grateful, yes,” Aziraphale said “You see—“

“Listen, laddie,” Shadwell growled, even though he couldn’t possibly think a man in his 40s was a lad, “I dinnae wanna know. Drink your coffee and we’ll be on our way.”

Marjorie pressed an affectionate kiss to the man’s forehead. “Oh, he’s such a grumpy bear when he’s had a few whiskies the night before.”

Crowley’s face went through a range of expressions before landing back on carefully neutral, and Aziraphale had to stifle a laugh. He couldn’t wait to tell Anathema about how strange the past few days had been. At the thought of Anathema, he felt cold and scared all over again, and the Nescafé turned bitter in his mouth. Soon this would all be over, and he and Anathema could go back to London, and life could go on as it had before. No surprises. 

“I’m ready when you are,” he said. “I’ll just go grab my things.”

He went back to his room and stuffed his things back in his suitcase. _You’re going in the bloody bin when I get out of here,_ he told it savagely. Then he opened his satchel and touched the package just once, delicately, to reassure himself it was still there. 

He wheeled the suitcase out to where Crowley was slouching in the living room, examining the velvet Elvis teddy bear painting.

There was a long and awkward stretch where neither of them spoke, as Marjorie pottered around noisily somewhere else in the house and Shadwell yelled. 

“Do you like Elvis?” Aziraphale finally said, because his mind was insistently replaying the last few moments of his dream again. Unlike in his dream, Crowley’s hair was half pulled back from his face, and he was fully dressed in his same black jeans and dark henley. 

Crowley shrugged. “Not really. Prefer things a bit edgier than that. Frightened Rabbit? Young Fathers?” Aziraphale stared at him, bewildered. Were those bands? Crowley gave a scoffing huff at his expression. “No? Course not. What do you like then?”

“I don’t go much in for the modern stuff. I like Puccini, Handel, that sort of thing. Real music.”

Crowley may have been about to reply sarcastically, but Marjorie and Shadwell appeared, and they all went out into cool, grey morning. Finally, Aziraphale thought, as he wheeled his bag towards their little red car, something was going smoothly. 

He could hear a car engine in the distance, and saw a yellow hatchback coming down the driveway towards them. 

And Crowley started yelling. 

“It’s him! Get in the bloody car! Come on!”

Aziraphale registered the face and the hair of the driver. It was the pale man in the grubby trench coat. The man with the gun. Who was after him. 

Shadwell shouted something incomprehensible and Aziraphale realised Crowley had pulled the keys out of his hand. 

A shot rang out.

For a moment, Aziraphale’s body refused to do anything. He couldn’t move. He was trapped in a hopeless meat suit, terror rushing through him like an avalanche. 

But, somehow, his muscles cooperated, and he found himself clambering into the backseat of the car, Marjorie climbing in beside him a moment later.

“What’s going on?” she gasped. “Why is that man shooting at us?”

“I, ah, can explain!” Aziraphale said, fumbling for the seatbelt.

Shadwell was still shouting at Crowley from the passenger seat and Crowley was shouting back _(Do you want to be shot, you daft old coot)_ but the car was now moving, at first slowly, and then faster, and then they were shooting up the driveway past the Peugeot.

Dimly, Aziraphale heard another gunshot. For a moment he expected the rear windscreen to shatter, for one of them in the car to suddenly bloom red with blood, but instead Crowley just swore, loudly, as he worked the gearshift. “He’s a fucking psychopath!”

Crowley drove like he thought he was trying to win Le Mans, which under the circumstances was probably a good thing. He took the turn from the driveway onto the road at such speed Aziraphale felt as if his internal organs were trying to leave his body.

“What the hell is going on!” Shadwell bellowed.

“Later!” Crowley shouted back. “Aziraphale, your job is to watch him and warn me if he gets close, ok?”

Aziraphale turned in his seat. He could see that the pale man had managed to turn the car around and was almost out of the driveway. “He’s almost on the road!” 

Crowley slammed his foot down on the accelerator, and they were all thrown back in their seats. Gravel sprayed up behind the car and the sound of it rattling down the road was almost deafening. The distance between the Astra and the Peugeot widened. 

Shadwell was still ranting something from the front seat and Aziraphale could see from behind the tension in Crowley’s shoulders. He was trembling from fear and adrenaline himself, clutching his satchel and his little trolley-wheeled bag to his chest so hard his fingers were white. 

“How are we doing, angel?” Crowley called over the rattle of the road, and it took Aziraphale a moment to realise he was asking him. 

“He’s quite far back now, but don’t slow down!”

“I don’t think this thing can go any faster. I’m already doing 110.”

“She can’t handle it!” Shadwell yelled. “Ye’ll break her to bits!”

Crowley actually growled, showing his teeth. “Listen, I’ve known more men like that than you’ve had hot dinners, and he’s the sort of person who’d happily cut off your toes to mail them to your gran. So you should be thanking me—“

They turned a bend in the road and there they were, perhaps a hundred metres ahead. A whole herd of...cows. Brown ones. Big ones. Ambling across the road slow and unhurried, unconcerned with the matter of life and death they’d just interrupted. 

“Watch the road!” Aziraphale yelped.

Crowley hit the brakes and the car came to skidding halt only metres from the closest animal.

There were a lot of cows ahead of them, all surprisingly big, and in a battle between a Vauxhall Astra and a cow, it was clear that there would be no winners, only carnage. 

“Marjorie,” Crowley said, his voice very calm. “There’s a lane down there isn’t there?” He gestured down the fields to one side of them.

“Yes, that’s right. It’s a bit of a ways though.”

Aziraphale looked behind him, and saw the Peugeot coming around the corner. “He’s caught up with us!” 

At that, Crowley turned and looked at Aziraphale, and gave a wide, feral grin. “Hold on, ladies and gentlemen...and Shadwell.”

Then he put the car back into gear, yanked on the steering wheel and they plunged off the road. 

Aziraphale had never been one for rollercoasters or any part of the amusement park experience, and the horrifying drop in the pit of his stomach was awful. Marjorie’s hand grabbed his arm and she let out a squeal that sounded almost delighted. The car crunched and they were skidding through the low gorse. 

“Are ye fecking insane!” Shadwell yelled. 

“Apparently!” Crowley yelled back. 

The car lurched down the hill with bone-jarring speed. Aziraphale risked a look behind them, and saw the pale haired man had nosed his car into their tracks across the field. “He’s following!” 

Ahead of them was a low hedge, and just when Aziraphale thought they were going to hit it, Crowley yanked on the handbrake and turned the wheel at the same time. The car veered and then they were rattling along beside it as startled birds rose in a flock away from them. 

The Peugeot was still behind them, but further away. 

Aziraphale wondered if closing his eyes might help, but it didn’t. It just made him feel as if he was definitely about to throw up rather than potentially. He opened them just in time to see Crowley veer sharply around a low stand of bushes, and they plunged downhill again. 

Even Shadwell had stopped yelling.

Aziraphale looked behind again and saw the Peugeot was now somehow closing the gap. He didn’t know exactly what would happen when the car caught up to them, and he really didn’t want to find out. “He’s gaining on us, Crowley!”

“But there’s the lane!” Marjorie called, and Aziraphale saw it too, at the bottom of another field, and over what looked quite a substantial ditch. 

“Are we all still holding on?” Crowley called, sounding almost manically cheerful. 

“You can’t mean to try and jump that ditch!” Aziraphale heard himself say, his voice almost squeaking. 

“Can’t I?”

Aziraphale reached up and grabbed the handle above his head, and Marjorie’s grip on his arm tightened...

And then Crowley turned the car almost into the ditch. There was a moment when Aziraphale was certain that the car was about to tip over. Aziraphale heard himself make a horrified sound, and Shadwell and Marjorie were both screaming, and then... 

“So long sucker!” Crowley yelled, and jolted the car back up onto level ground. 

Aziraphale looked back to see the Peugeot plunge into the ditch and crumple like a piece of paper. 

Crowley hit the accelerator again and they were off through the heather (or was it gorse?) at a pace that was only slightly less bone-shaking than before. Eventually, the ditch levelled out slightly, and Crowley brought the Vauxhall onto the lane. 

A few minutes later, he pulled the car to stop, and turned around in his seat to look at the others.

“All right then?”

Shadwell gaped at him, apparently now lost for words. 

Marjorie’s face was pale under her colourful makeup, but when she spoke her voice was calm. “Why was that man chasing us?”

Aziraphale loosened his grip on his bags. “He, ah, he wants something I have. Something rather valuable. Which I have to deliver to someone else, because they’ve kidnapped my sister. And if I don’t make the delivery, they’ll hurt her.”

“Someone’s kidnapped your sister? Well, why didn’t ye say?” Shadwell glowered. “Family comes first, doesn’t it, Marjorie?”

“Always,” Marjorie said, finally unclenching her hand from Aziraphale’s arm. “Oh, this is like something from your book about the FBI agent.”

Aziraphale gave her the brightest smile he could, somewhere about the wattage of a power-saving bulb at the back of a refrigerator. 

“It is, I suppose,” he said. “Anyway, perhaps we should get on? What do you say, Crowley?”

“Yeah,” Crowley said, inscrutable behind his sunglasses. “Before anyone else tries to kill us.” He didn’t seem to be joking. 

It took about an hour to drive back into town, even with Crowley’s loose adherence to speed limits. Shadwell still glared. Marjorie spent most of the drive pointing out the local attractions as though the whole thing was a nice jaunt through the country and she was their tour guide. The _local attractions_ were more fields, mountains, and more cows, of the wide-horned shaggy sort. Aziraphale listened enough to make the odd noise of interest here and there but his mind was elsewhere. 

As soon as they got to town, he’d buy a phone charger, and call Anathema’s number, and then he’d arrange the delivery for as soon as possible. This couldn’t go on. Kidnapping, guns, car chases through fields, poorly timed dreams about handsome strangers... none of it was acceptable at all. 

“Listen. I think we’d be better off without getting the police involved,” Crowley said abruptly, jolting Aziraphale out of his spiralling thoughts. 

“Oh, of course not, Shadwell doesn’t believe in the police,” Marjorie chirped. 

“Aye,” Shadwell glowered. “None of us want the pigs snorting around in our business, do we?’

“Of course not dear.”

“I’m dreadfully sorry to have involved you all in this,” Aziraphale said weakly. 

Shadwell huffed with what may have been approval, turning in his seat. “Those of us who live beyond the law have to help each other, don’t we?” 

Craigsmuir had been a blur of grey stone-walled, slate-roofed buildings when Aziraphale had passed through it only two days before. Now it sat under the changeable sky, some sort of paradise with electricity and running water and presumably shops that sold phone chargers and large bowls of hot chips. Or maybe even one shop, and Aziraphale thought he might settle for a bag of crisps. It wasn’t a very big village. But at least it was on Aziraphale’s map, and he knew where he was.

Crowley drove them to a small pub which seemed to be the only such establishment in the village, before he handed the keys back to Shadwell and slid out of the driver’s seat.

Aziraphale climbed out shakily, and to his surprise, found Crowley’s hand on his shoulder.

“You all right there?” Crowley asked, surprisingly gently.

“Where did you learn to drive like that?” 

Crowley shrugged, and lifted his hand away. “Just picked it up. Did a bit of joyriding when I was a kid.”

Marjorie climbed after Aziraphale and threw her arms around him in a cloud of Chanel No 5. “Good luck,” she said. Then she whispered in his ear, “I’m psychic, you know. And I can sense that he likes you.”

Before Aziraphale could do more than huff something nonsensical, she was back in the Astra, and they drove away, Marjorie waving at them like the Queen in a passing motorcade. 

“Right,” Crowley said. He seemed more cheerful than he had their whole time together, even behind his dark glasses. “Why don’t we go in and get some real food and then we can work out the plan for what to do next?”

“I rather thought, this was where we would part.”

“I’m not letting you out of my sight,” Crowley said. “Not until I get my money.”

The money. Of course. How could Aziraphale have so quickly forgotten their deal? 

“I assume a bank transfer will be sufficient?” He hoped his face wasn’t as warm as it felt. “All I need is a phone charger and then I can get it sorted.”

“All right,” Crowley said. “Phone charger first, lunch second, right? I think your best bet would be the corner shop. Actually, it’s your only bet. How about this? I’ll look after your bags, and then you meet me in here.”

Aziraphale handed his satchel and his suitcase to the other man and watched him walk into the pub. Phone charger, yes, right. 

The shop was small and cluttered and seemed to stock everything from fishing nets to postcards (of the sort that were completely black and said ‘night life in Craigsmuir’, along with various photos of mountains and moors and yet more cows). He gave himself a moment to walk mindlessly through the narrow aisles, trying to catch his breath. 

Whatever rather intense and frankly misguided attraction he felt for Crowley was soon going to be—as almost every intense and misguided attraction he’d had for anyone—a thing of the past. He was going to give the man his money, and it would be all over. He’d never see him again. He’d never know what it felt like to actually kiss him. Or more.

He found himself staring at the shop’s small selection of condom packages and he imagined buying one of the boxes, and walking back to the pub, and saying to Crowley, “See here, my dear, I don’t even know if you like men, but how about a meaningless sexual liaison before I try to save my sister?”

What would one of the characters in his books do? Somehow it always seemed to go much more easily in fiction. People looked at each other and knew. Attraction was communicated by long lingering stares, and not just at someone’s bum as they walked away. There was never any doubt, or at least if there was doubt it was delicious, not awkward painful wondering about other people’s sexual orientation and whether overtures would be welcome or cause for disgust. Kisses were perfect, and sex was always phenomenal, first times included. No-one ever wondered if their stomach was too soft, their thighs too thick, if their double chin was a turn off, if their bow ties had crossed the border from charmingly eccentric to fusty old fart. No-one wore bow ties in his stories.

He gave a little huff at his own ridiculousness, and wandered the store until he found one lone phone charger. 

When he got back to the pub, Crowley was sitting at the bar, a full pint in front of him. He was all long dark lines on a bar stool, the only thing in the room Aziraphale could focus on. 

He would never see him again.

He was speaking to the bartender, a young man with a thick shock of dark hair, who was nodding as Crowley said something and gestured with one long-fingered hand. They were lovely hands.

“Mission accomplished,” Aziraphale said as he approached, and Crowley angled himself on the barstool. “I don’t suppose you might have somewhere I can plug my phone in, do you?”

“Yeah, over by that table in the corner,” the young man gave Crowley a slight frown. 

“Thank you, Newt,” Crowley said, a little oddly. “Newt’s a good egg. He won’t rat us out. Will you, Newt?”

Aziraphale was missing something here, but he had no idea what. “Rat us out? What do you mean?”

Crowley gave one of his whole body shrugs. “If someone comes looking for us, I meant. That’s all.”

It took a few minutes for the phone to charge up enough so Aziraphale could use it. In the meantime, he returned to the bar and fished his maps out of his satchel, and spread them out in front of the bartender.

“Newt, was it? I rather desperately need to get here as soon as possible,” he pointed at the location on the map. “Is there a car hire place near here?”

Newt looked at the map and shook his head. “No, the nearest one is back in Aberdeen. But there’s a bus that goes right past there, you could get the driver to make a special stop.”

“And...is there a bus station?’

“Oh no, it leaves from the shop. But it only goes once a day, leaves at 10am. You’ve missed it for today.”

Aziraphale made a small noise of dismay, and pressed his hands into his face. “You wouldn’t have a car you could lend to me, would you?”

“I have a Vespa,” Newt replied, pity and confusion mixing in his voice. “It’s a bit chilly in the winter. And it does tend to break down all the time.”

Aziraphale found himself on the edge of hysterical laughter, which was threatening to turn into tears. “A scooter! How perfect. Of course, of course. Why would anything go well? Why should I expect anything but a disaster?”

“Hey, don’t freak out now,” Crowley said, nudging him with an elbow. “It’ll be all right.“

“How can it be?” Aziraphale said. He sounded silly and childish to his own ears, but the words fell out in a terrified rush. “What if it’s already too late? What if Anathema’s hurt? What if I’ve stuffed everything up? I’m not brave or strong or clever enough for this...what if it’s utterly beyond me?”

“Breathe, Aziraphale, breathe,” Crowley’s voice was closer, and he was touching Aziraphale again, this time, a hand between his shoulder blades. “You’ll get the book to them, your sister will be fine. Just breathe.”

The feel of Crowley’s hand one his back slowly helped him stuff the panic back into a small mental box. He focused on the warmth of it, the slight motion. He really did have such lovely hands.

“I’ve only known you for three of the longest, strangest days of my life,” Crowley continued. “But from what I’ve seen...you are brave, and strong, and clever, and you’re going to save your sister. I know it.”

Aziraphale blinked away the moisture that had formed in his eyes and took a deep breath. “Why are you being so _nice_ all of a sudden?”

Crowley gave another one of those delightful, head-thrown back laughs. “Because you owe me ten thousand quid,” he said, and gave Aziraphale’s shoulder one last squeeze. “Go make your call, will you?”

He did. The phone rang only once, and then someone answered it, the man from before.

“The brother. We were beginning to think you’d fallen off the face of the earth,” he said, coldly, and Aziraphale fought to keep hold of whatever courage he had left. 

“There was an incident...a car accident. I’m in...” he almost said the name of the village, but some self-preservation instinct kicked in. “I am nearby now. I merely need to solve a minor transport issue, and then we can make the trade. I will be there tomorrow morning.” He paused. What if they’d already done something unspeakable to Anathema? “Provided my sister is well.”

“Wait a moment,” the man said, and there were muffled noises down the line. 

And then he heard Anathema’s voice.

“Az! Are you all right? I’ve been so worried about you!” She sounded just as fondly irritated with him as always, and he felt dizzy with relief. 

“Oh my dear girl, don’t worry about me, are _you_ all right?”

“I’m fine, I’m fine, just dying of boredom. Being kidnapped is really dull.” She laughed, and he did too. She was fine. She was fine, he had the book, and this would all be over soon.

“Darling, I’m so sorry this has taken me so long, but I’ll be there tomorrow, and we’ll get everything sorted and we can all go home.”

“Az. Be careful. I love you.”

“I love you too,” he said, and then she was gone, and the other man was speaking again.

“We’ll have the trade ready for you in the morning,” he said, and the line went dead. 


	5. The Zanzibar Tiger Escape Plan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CW: things get a little explicit in this chapter, so if that’s not your thing, stop reading at the lyrics to Roxy Music’s _More Than This._ (Yes, Crowley is a huge dork, but I also think that song is HAWT.)  
> Thank you yet again to Summerofspock for putting up with my too-long sentences, and to everyone else at the GOEvents server for being so nice.  
> And a massive thank you to everyone who has left a comment too, I will get around to replying to all of them, I promise. You are all fabulous.

Crowley considered his beer. It wasn’t possible for beer to be reproachful, but if it had been, his beer would definitely be giving him a disapproving look. He didn’t feel like finishing it now, not even out of spite.

“What was all that about?” Newt said from behind the bar, where he was polishing what seemed to be the same glass he’d been wiping for a good twenty minutes. 

“Newt, if you’re thinking, here’s my old mate Crowley, I should ask him what’s going on...I’d like you to consider that we’re not actually friends, and I’m not taking questions at this time.”

Newt made a huffing noise. “I was just wondering.”

“Wonder away, but in silence, please.”

“You come in here every week, and that’s literally the first time I’ve seen you talk to anyone other than me.”

“What part of ‘don’t ask questions’ did you have trouble with?”

“And then you demand packing tape and a pair of scissors! And you went through that man’s bag! And took something out of it!”

“Newt. It’s ok. It’s nothing you need to worry about.”

“And that poor guy had a face like his dog had been run over...”

“Newt. Shut up.”

“Is he your boyfriend?”

“What? No? I just met him.”

Newt considered Crowley gravely. “And why don’t you want me talking to anyone?”

“Because he’s in trouble, big trouble. Gabriel type trouble.” 

At that Newt’s face went pale. “Oh.”

As the owner of the only pub in the village, Newt had seen enough about the various local _characters_ to know that Gabriel was dangerous. Crowley could see the gears in his brain working. 

“So... are you in trouble too?”

“Probably,” Crowley took another sip of his accusing beer.

“Am I going to be in trouble if Gabriel finds out he stayed here?” Newt pointed upstairs, to where right now Aziraphale was probably undoing his bow tie in one of the pub’s back rooms.

“Nah,” Crowley said. “It’s just for the best if you don’t know anything.”

Newt nodded. “Like why you nicked something from his bag.”

Crowley rubbed his face tiredly. Two nights spent sleeping in weird positions next to a stranger had left him feeling tired and strange.

And yes, he had nicked a very specific something from Aziraphale’s bag while he went to find a phone charger. Newt gave the impression of being a genial idiot, but he was a lot smarter than he seemed, although he _was_ chronically, unsettlingly affable. 

“And why he transferred ten thousand quid to you.” Newt continued.

“Ah, see now that’s because he crashed into my car,” Crowley objected. “But seriously, Newt, you need to drop this. Just...if anyone comes in here and asks if you’ve seen him, or me for that matter, lie. I know you’re rubbish at it, but consider it a favour for a friend.”

“You just said we weren’t friends.”

“Consider it a favour for a patron, then,” Crowley amended. 

Aziraphale had transferred the money, and showed Crowley as he’d done it. They’d sat in awkward silence until Crowley had suggested he take one of Newt’s rooms. They’d shaken hands, and then Newt had taken him (and his annoyingly fluffy hair and ridiculously soft stomach and stupidly tilted little nose and painfully nice eyes and unbelievably daft bow tie and horrible little suitcase) upstairs. 

What Crowley really should be doing now was getting out of the place as fast as he could. He should ring up Adam, and ask incredibly nicely to borrow one of his half-restored vintage cars, and drive away as fast as he could before anyone could catch him. 

He should definitely be doing that. He should not be thinking about what he’d done, when he’d darted into Newt’s back room and taken the book out of the package, and replaced it with a paperback novel from Marjorie’s house. (One of Aziraphale’s, in fact. Wasn’t that going to be funny. Ha ha.)

Instead, he sat on the barstool and looked at the beer.

He was a piece of shit. He’d always been a piece of shit, stuck to the bottom of someone’s shoe. That’s what he was. A lowlife, a criminal. He’d tried to get away from it, on and off, but it had never stuck. He’d somehow conned a scholarship to study at the Royal College of Art, but after that, no matter how he’d tried, he’d been sucked back into doing shitty things for shitty amounts of money. 

So now he could do the vastly shitty thing, and make vastly more money, and hate himself forever. But hate himself forever from a beachfront locale in somewhere warm and far away. Australia, maybe. Lots of beaches in Australia. Or Bali. Mozambique. Oh, what about Zanzibar? He’d seen a show about it once. All white sands and perfect blue water. 

He could move to Zanzibar, and buy a tiger. Or maybe a lion. Where did tigers live again?

 _Fuck,_ he thought. 

The beer continued to judge him. 

“Fuck,” he said, and buried his head in his hands. 

Newt was also judging him. He could tell by how he’d gone silent.

A different thought tugged at him, and he gave into it, let an idea that wasn’t quite as vastly awful take shape in his mind. 

He took out his phone and texted Adam, and then drained what was left of the nasty beer. “Oi. Newt. What room is Aziraphale in?”

Newt looked at him, frowning slightly. “Room four. The one at the back.”

Crowley didn’t give himself time to change his mind, and walked up the stairs to the rooms above. He knocked on the door of Room Four, and Aziraphale opened it a few moments later, cautiously. 

“Oh,” he said, surprise and something else warring on his face (his stupid, charming face). “Hello, Crowley. Did you...is there something wrong? Was there a problem with the money?”

“We should have dinner,” Crowley said, in a rush. “Let me buy you dinner, I mean. Tonight. If you’d like.”

Aziraphale looked at him for longer than was comfortable. “Why?” He finally said. Something about the way he said it, so bluntly, made something in Crowley curl up and die a little. 

“Because...Maybe we might enjoy each other’s company, under... different circumstances,” he said, trying to sound casual. “You know. We could be friends.”

“Friends?” Aziraphale frowned now, actually frowned, as if it was unpleasant to him. “I rather thought you’d be happy to see the back of me, now you have the money.”

“Hey, that’s not entirely fair!” Crowley said. He could feel his face heating up with shame. “We might not have got off to a very good start but...ah, fuck it. Don’t worry about it, just thought I’d ask. Have a nice life.” He turned and began to stalk away.

“No, please, Crowley, I’m sorry,” Aziraphale called out. He stepped out into the hall, and a ray of sunlight through the grotty window at the end of the hall caught in his hair, made it glow in a vaguely unearthly way that wasn’t at all fair. “I’d like to have dinner with you. And, I apologise for sounding so rude. It’s been quite an odd few days. And I suppose, after how much trouble I’ve caused you...” he trailed off, and looked down at his hands. “I rather think I should buy _you_ dinner. And especially after today, with your driving and everything. It was rather remarkable how you got us away from that horrible man. If a little terrifying. You do go rather fast.”

Crowley drifted closer. It wasn’t the most enthusiastic yes he’d heard, but he’d take it. “I’ll come back here at around seven, then? Meet you downstairs?” 

Aziraphale looked at him, and then smiled, a real smile, and it made Crowley’s breath catch in his throat. “That sounds lovely.”

“See you then,” Crowley said, reluctantly. 

“Yes.”

“Ok.” He finally convinced his stupid legs to turn him around and carry him towards the stairs, and he was on the top step when Aziraphale called out his name, one more time.

“Crowley... in the car today. You called me angel. Why was that?”

Crowley tried to remember if he’d said that, but it was all a blur of the steering wheel under his hands and the rattle of the car over the heat. Terrifying, but exhilarating too in a way that hunching over his workdesk in his little house wasn’t. 

“I s’pose your name, it sounds angelic. You said your family was religious. Or something,” he said. “Must’ve just slipped out. Sorry if it bothered you.”

Aziraphale gave another of those sweet smiles that were increasingly making Crowley’s insides turn hot and liquid. 

“Not at all, I was just surprised. See you tonight then.”

“Yeah, I’ll be here,” Crowley agreed, and sent himself down the stairs. 

_Fuck._ None of this was what he should be doing, and he knew if he gave himself time to think, he’d regret it. So he walked out of the pub at a brisk pace, backpack over his shoulder. He had about six hours to pull off what he had in mind. It should be enough time. 

First, though, he had to call the police.

* * *

  
  


By the time 7pm arrived, Aziraphale had tied and retied his bow tie again and again, and again, before yanking if off and throwing it on the bed. No tie, not tonight. No waistcoat, no tie, no jacket, just his last clean shirt, top button undone at the neck. A casual look, a person going out to dinner with a new friend. 

Crowley had surprised him when he’d said that. Friends. Of course that was a ridiculous notion, because friendship implied some sort of continuing relationship beyond these peculiar circumstances. And that wasn’t happening, now that Aziraphale had given him the money. 

Still, he’d showered and shaved and done his best with his unironed shirt and trousers—at least he had something clean to wear, although he was down to his last spare set—and looked at himself critically in the mirror in the tiny bathroom. The harsh, unflattering fluorescent light made his face look older, more tired, and for a moment he considered simply not going downstairs. 

It was better than sitting in this room fretting until tomorrow morning, wasn’t it? He didn’t even have anything to read. (And, he told himself, looking at Crowley was vastly preferable than watching BBC4 on the very small TV in the corner of the dreary, little room.)

He would have to do, he supposed, fussing at his hair a little. And anyway it wouldn’t do to think of this as some sort of... _assignation._ Just dinner. Just friends. 

At exactly 7pm, he went down the stairs into the pub itself. It was busier now, a few small clumps of people at the tables, the smell of food drifting from the kitchen. He looked around the room and saw Crowley leaning against the wall in a corner, a beer in one hand. He’d acquired a different set of clothes, dark jeans with a slick, almost oily look, and a tight black shirt. He must have gone somewhere and cleaned up too, and his hair fell in soft coppery waves around his jaw. 

He looked better than anyone Aziraphale had ever seen.

Crowley looked up and saw him there, and gave him one of those almost smiles,. It was as if he’d been pushed down the stairs, or struck by lightning, or perhaps a bomb.

Maybe he was concussed from the car crash after all.

He wasn’t a fool, he wasn’t a character in one of his novels, this wasn’t anything. He wasn’t _falling_ for him. It was just a crush, a ridiculous crush, and he was a grown man, and he could walk up to Crowley and say hello and have a nice dinner with him without being an idiot. He was a mature, sensible person.

He thought of the dream he’d woken up from this morning. He was _trying_ to be a mature, sensible person. 

He took a deep breath and walked to where Crowley was slouching.

“Hello,” he said, helplessly.

“Nice shirt,” Crowley replied, eyes flicking up and down Aziraphale in a way that made him wish he’d stayed in his room. “No tie?”

“No tie... ” he agreed, smoothing his hands over the fabric of his shirt. “You look very handsome,” he added. 

Crowley gave a snort. “Handsome? Leave off.”

“Well, that’s what we in the writing business call a compliment, and you’re supposed to stay thank you.” Aziraphale was sure his face was bright red.

Crowley made a face and sipped his beer. “Sure. Sorry. Thank you.”

“Then I apologise for being polite—”

“Don’t be like that. I’m just rubbish at being a person. All right? I accept the compliment. This is me, graciously accepting your compliment.”

“I shan’t repeat the mistake, let me assure you.”

“Yeah good, because I wouldn’t want to get a big head. So you better save those compliments up for people who deserve them. So. Are you hungry or not? Because I’m bloody starving.”

“I am. Where are we going?”

“Just here. The back room. There’s not much else around. But I told you about the kailkenny, didn’t I?”

“You did, indeed. Well then, after you.”

Crowley walked off with his distinctive stalk and Aziraphale followed him. For once he was barely hungry; how was he supposed to be able to eat when he felt like this? How was he supposed to make conversation? He wanted to just sit and stare at Crowley like a complete fool.

He sat at one of the empty tables. Crowley went to the bar, and came back with a bottle of wine (rioja, not too awful). A young man came and took their order. Beef stew and kailkenny for Aziraphale, and fish and chips for Crowley. 

“Cheers,” Crowley said.

There was a long moment of awkward silence, then they both started speaking at once. 

“Do you—”

“Is there—”

They both stopped, then Crowley waved a hand at him. “You go.”

“I wanted to know about your cottage, the one you want to buy. At the seaside,” Aziraphale said.

Crowley raised his eyebrows again. “Right. What do you want to know?”

“Do you have a locale in mind?”

“Ah. Not sure. Maybe. Somewhere warm.”

“Not in Scotland, then?”

“Scotland would be all right. But I dunno. If I had to pick anywhere in the world...” Crowley twisted his wine glass. “I’d like to live somewhere I could walk out and look at the sea and there’d be whales, or dolphins maybe. I like dolphins. What about you?”

“What about me?”

“If you could live anywhere in the world, where would you live?”

“I already love London, it’s perfect. Restaurants, theatre, Albert Hall, it’s all there,” Aziraphale thought of the way his life had seemed so easy and ordered less than a week ago. And now everything had changed. The world had tilted and he’d fallen off. “Perhaps I’d like somewhere a bit less busy. Somewhere I could write without interruption. After I write a few more novels and the money is a bit more secure, and Anathema’s business gets going, maybe we might...” He trailed off. _Move in with my little sister and her stinky little dog, bother her until I’m too old to do anything else? What sort of a life is that?_ “Anyway. You’re an artist. Who is your inspiration?”

“What is this, a speed date?” Crowley said. His tone was mocking, but somehow gentle. “What’s your favourite colour? What was the last movie you saw? Tell me one interesting fact about yourself?”

“I will have you know I am genuinely interested in your answer.”

Crowley seemed to consider that an acceptable response. “All right. It’s a cliche. But Van Gogh.”

“And why do you like Van Gogh so much?”

“It’s the light, innit?” He waved those long fingers around, and Aziraphale thought of the way light reflected off water. “Amazing that you can slap a bit of a paint on some canvas and then you get, you know, Starry Night.”

“I wish I could see one of your paintings,” Aziraphale said, and meant it. 

Crowley sat back, and looked at him, appraising. Then he pulled out his phone, and tapped on it a few times, before turning the screen towards Aziraphale. 

It was a picture of the ocean. No, it was a picture of a _painting_ of the ocean, Aziraphale could see that, but it was the ocean too, in some essential way. Green and grey and blue swirling together, the white of sea-foam. 

“That’s two metres long,” Crowley said. “Took me three months. Doesn’t look like much. In the photo. I know.” He began to pull away and without thinking Aziraphale cupped his hand around the phone and Crowley’s hand, and drew them closer to look.

“It’s beautiful, Crowley. Where is it now?”

“In my shed,” Crowley said with a snort, and succeeded in drawing his hand back. “Maybe when I die I’ll be appreciated for my genius.”

“You should have a show,” Aziraphale said. “There’s a lovely little gallery just down the street from Anathema’s in Soho. The owner’s name is Sarah or Susan, I could get her card—”

Crowley leaned back and crossed his arms, chin jutting out in a way that Aziraphale already knew, after only three days, was a sign that he was about to be difficult. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Why is it ridiculous?”

“Because people like me don’t end up having shows in galleries in fucking Soho,” Crowley drawled, mocking.

“People like you? You mean talented people?”

“No, I mean people who live in a cow paddock in Scotland and who—” Crowley bit down on whatever he was going to say. “Who knows. Maybe one day. I really don’t care about all that, I just want to paint. Anyway. That’s enough about me. You’re a writer. What’s your favourite book?”

If he was determined to change the subject, Aziraphale would let him. He’d let him do anything, he realised with something like shame. “Pride and Prejudice.”

“Austen? Really? Why?”

“Because it’s a marvellous love story! It’s about two people finding the best versions of themselves together. Lizzie has to learn to stop judging everyone. And you know many people think Mr Darcy is a brooding anti-hero, but he’s not at all, he’s awkward and almost shy. He really only becomes worthy of Lizzie’s love when he shows kindness and selflessness.” He realised he was blathering and drank some wine to stop himself. Crowley regarded him with that amused coolness that made him feel exposed. 

“Have you read it?” he added.

“Watched the movie with that girl with a face like a duck. It was all right. Needed more explosions.”

“Oh really?”

“Would have made all the dancing tolerable.”

“Not a fan of dancing?”

“I never said that. I’m a great dancer. You should have seen me in the 90s, I had these enormous JNCO jeans and...crop tops...little butterfly clips in my hair, and I used to cover myself in that glittery body gel...”

Aziraphale had the image of Crowley, glittering, and swallowed another large mouthful of his wine.

The food came then, which was a relief. Crowley was right, it was delicious, and for a few moments neither of them spoke. Aziraphale ate his stew, and watched Crowley spear chips one by one. He ate slowly and deliberately, licking salt off his lips in between. It was terribly unfair that everything he did was so _interesting._

His own food was perfectly cooked, beautiful, thick, rich sauce that smelled of red wine and thyme; he’d been so hungry for days, but the awful twisting feeling had him in its grip now. He forced himself to slowly chew through half a bowl before he put his fork down and pushed the plate away. 

“Not hungry?” Crowley asked. 

“I think all the excitement of the past few days has put me off my food.”

“Excitement. You could call it that.” Crowley poured the last of the wine into their glasses. “Fucking terror, I’d call it.”

“It was extremely terrifying.” 

In the dimly lit room, the golden hue of Crowley’s eyes had darkened to a rich honey. Aziraphale knew he was staring and he couldn’t stop himself. He wanted to say, _it was awful, and yet_ you _were there, and I’d do it all again if it was with you._

“Let’s go to the bar,” Crowley was saying. “You can get me that glass of Laphroaig.”

The front bar wasn’t very busy, but there were a few people there, some dreadful modern music pumping loud enough to make it so Aziraphale had to lean across the bar and almost yell to get Newt’s attention. Crowley returned to slouching against a wall, and nodded when Aziraphale handed him his drink. 

“Do you think you’re doing the right thing, just giving them the book?” he said, leaning closer so Aziraphale could hear him. 

“Of course I am.”

“But you’re giving up your bargaining chip. What if Gabriel doesn’t follow through with his end of the deal?”

Aziraphale watched Crowley’s long fingers on the glass of whiskey, twisting it around, so the liquid swirled around the ice. “I hardly see that I have a choice,” he said, slowly. “Anathema’s safety comes first. Wait, who’s Gabriel?”

“What?”

“Gabriel. You said the name Gabriel.”

“Did I?” Crowley shifted back. Evasively, Aziraphale would have thought, but what did he have to be evasive about? “I was thinking about something else.”

“What would you do, then, if you were me, if you think that I’m doing this all wrong?” Aziraphale said, maybe a bit louder than was required even with the music. 

Crowley looked at the ceiling and over Aziraphale’s shoulder, anywhere but straight at him. “I don’t think you’re doing anything wrong. But. It’s dangerous.”

Aziraphale tried not to scoff. “That’s stating the obvious, my dear. But she’s my sister, what else can I do?”

“What if...you let me know, after? That you and your sister were safe? Send me a text or something?”

Something warm expanded in Azieraphale’s chest, a solid glow, the colour of Crowley’s eyes.“I could do that.”

“You don’t have to. But just to make sure you’re safe.”

“That’s very nice of you.”

“Shut it. I’m not nice. I’m practical. You’re so busy looking out for your sister, who’s looking out for you?”

The alcohol was going to his head now. He couldn’t remember anyone ever asking him that before. Who was looking out for him?

“I suppose I look after myself,” he finally said. “What about you, Crowley, is anyone looking after you?”

Crowley tilted his head. “Nope.”

“No...partner, no parents?” 

“No-one on the scene, and my mother threw me out when I was fourteen. Never knew my father. So no, just me.” Crowley paused, seemed to think about something for a beat. “And... have you got a missus hidden back in London?” 

“Of course not,” Aziraphale almost laughed. “I write gay romance novels for a living. What about that sounds _straight_ to you?”

“I don’t know. Takes all sorts.”

“Well then Crowley. What sort are you?” He was almost shocked at himself for asking so bluntly, and Crowley looked surprised too. 

“You want to know if I like men or women?” he finally said.

Aziraphale didn’t trust himself to speak. 

“Just...asking out of curiosity, are you?” Crowley leaned in again, close enough that Aziraphale could smell the whiskey on his breath, see each individual eyelash, the bump in the middle of his crooked nose, a tooth digging into his bottom lip.

“You’re right, that’s a terribly personal question,” he faltered. “It doesn’t...it’s not...”

“Men.” Crowley threw back what was left of his whiskey. “Hey. I like this song. Want me to show you how well I can dance?”

“What?” 

He’d stopped noticing the music at some point, stopped noticing the low dark beamed ceiling of the pub, the slightly sticky floor, the gaggle of women in one corner laughing raucously, a couple of them shuffling awkwardly on an otherwise empty dance floor.

Crowley extended a hand to him. “Come on. Dance with me.”

“I don’t—” Crowley’s hand closed on his wrist and it wasn’t as if there were actual sparks, it was just that Aziraphale’s imagination had always been far too vivid. “I can’t,” he said hopelessly. “Not here.”

“What?” Crowley was pulling on his hand insistently. “What do you mean?”

“Come upstairs,” Aziraphale half-yelled, before he could change his mind. “Come to my room.”

Something changed in Crowley’s posture, as if he was holding himself still. He was going to say something sarcastic, and Aziraphale would feel like an idiot, which was how it should be, and then he’d go back to his room alone and probably have a sad wank and this lovely torture would finally be over. 

“Ok,” he said. He moved his hand and Aziraphale felt his long fingers curl around his own. “Ok.”

They went back up the stairs and down the narrow corridor, his hand still entangled with Crowley’s, and into the dim little room. He’d left the bedside lamp on, and he decided maybe it was best to leave the room in semi-darkness, rather than turn on the fluorescent lights and have all his tentative hope disappear in the unapologetic glare.

The door shut behind them, and Aziraphale had no idea what to do next. He wasn’t anywhere near drunk enough for this.

Crowley pulled away from him and withdrew his phone from a pocket that really shouldn’t have been able to accommodate it. The song that was playing downstairs started playing out of the tiny speaker, tinny and ridiculous. 

“Now then?” he said casually. 

Aziraphale nodded, and let Crowley take his hand again, and pull him closer. There was just enough room in between the double bed and the TV to take a few shuffling steps. 

Crowley’s hands were on his waist now and he reached up and took his shoulders––that’s what you were supposed to do, wasn’t it? He couldn’t remember the last time he’d done this, it must have been decades––and then they were just standing there, absolutely not dancing. 

_More than this, you know there is nothing more than this...tell me one thing more than this,_ the phone sang, with appalling, or possibly miraculous timing.

Nothing more than this. _Right, yes,_ Aziraphale thought, and kissed him. 

There was a moment after his lips touched Crowley’s that it seemed as if he’d made the worst mistake of all time, because Crowley didn’t move. Until the hands on his hips tightened and pulled him closer, and Crowley kissed him back. 

It wasn’t anything like his dream. He opened his lips and their teeth clicked together and he had no idea what he should do, it felt strange and awkward. But Crowley’s tongue ran across his bottom lip, his mouth opened wider, head tilted to make it deeper, better, so much better. Oh, _this,_ this was how it was supposed to go. 

Crowley tasted of whiskey and salt, and he made a low surprised noise in his throat that Aziraphale felt more than heard. His hands slid around Aziraphale and pulled him closer, pressing them together. 

Aziraphale reached up even higher and tangled his fingers in Crowley’s hair, curving his hand around the back of his head. It was just as soft as he’d thought it would be, as soft as Crowley was sharp. 

He felt one of Crowley’s hands tug at the back of his shirt until his fingers skimmed along his lower back. 

Crowley must have been shuffling him back because the back of his knees hit the bed, and he sat down gracelessly, pulling Crowley down with him, his bony knees on either side of Aziraphale’s hips, Crowley kissing his neck.

“This all right then?” Crowley breathed against his neck.

 _This is the best thing that’s ever happened to me,_ Aziraphale didn’t say. _I think I’ve fallen in love with you,_ he definitely didn’t say. 

What came out was, “I don’t have any condoms.”

Crowley lifted his head. His face was flushed, his eyes dark, but he was smiling. “That’s...direct.”

“Yes, I thought it was best not to beat around the bush.”

“Ok. There’s, we don’t...I mean. We can do other things. If you want,” Crowley said, a surprising note of nervousness in his voice. “Do you want...”

“Yes. Obviously.”

“Obviously?” The hand against his skin under his shirt dipped lower, just under his waistband, stroking small circles.

“I’ve been thinking about what it would be like to touch you since I laid eyes on you,” Aziraphale said, too far gone to be anything but honest. 

“Oh, is that why you ran my car off a hill?”

“Yes, it was all a ruse. There aren’t really people who want to kill me. My sister wasn’t kidnapped. None of it was real. I just wanted to kiss you.”

“Knew it was all too ridiculous to be true. Can I take your shirt off?”

Aziraphale’s breath caught in his throat. “Only if you go first.”

Crowley stood, and pulled his shirt off in one smooth motion, revealing the flatness of his stomach, the lines of his ribs, lean shoulders. Scattered across his torso was a collection of small and amateurish tattoos; a knife, a wave, a snake curling on the inside of a bicep. 

“You’re gorgeous,” Aziraphale said shakily.

“I thought we said no more compliments?” Crowley muttered, hands now working on Aziraphale’s buttons. 

“That was before I got to see you like this.”

Crowley’s hands stopped and he exhaled softly. “Fuck,” he said, and Aziraphale thought he might be about to push away, go to the door, leave into the night. Instead he leaned forward and kissed Aziraphale on the mouth again, briefly and sweetly, before moving back and reapplying himself to the buttons. 

He pulled Aziraphale’s shirt off, then his undershirt. Then he pushed him back into the bed or he fell. He didn’t know and didn’t care, because Crowley was on top of him again. This time he was brave enough to lift his head and kiss him. 

And keep kissing, even as Crowley’s hands skimmed down over his shoulders and chest and over the curve of his stomach. Never his favourite body part, and he felt the familiar stab of embarrassment about his love for crepes (and cream on scones, and cheesecake, and tiramisu) but Crowley chose that moment to raise his head and stare down at him.

“Christ, you’re so soft,” he said. 

“Yes,” Aziraphale agreed. “I’m not...not like you.”

“Shut it. You’re perfect,” Crowley said, and Aziraphale could only make hopeless gasping noises as he kissed his way down his chest, licked at his nipples, and pressed more open-mouthed wet kisses across his belly. Those kisses turned into almost bites, Crowley’s teeth grazing his skin. He was so hard, his cock twitching with every nip.

Then Crowley’s hands were on his belt, working the buckle, tugging his trousers down over his painfully obvious erection––he felt like he’d been impossibly aroused since he’d walked downstairs into the pub and seen Crowley standing there––taking his pants with them. 

He thought Crowley might touch him, take him in his hand. Instead he stood up and pulled his own jeans down, kicking them impatiently away, and moved as if he was about to rejoin Aziraphale on the bed.

“Wait,” Aziraphale said, and Crowley stilled. 

“Yeah?”

“I just want to look at you,” he admitted, propping himself up on his elbows. “Just for a moment.”

Crowley pulled a face but didn’t move, stood there, lean and spare and so terribly lovely. Aziraphale finally let himself take him in, properly; from the sharp bones of his knees to the brightness of the hair between his legs. His long cock jutting up against his flat stomach. The tattoos; dark markings against his skin. The flat pink ovals of his nipples, the jut of his collarbones, the curve of his neck, his lightly freckled cheekbones. 

He was probably too skinny. His nose was crooked. His hairline was too high. The orange of his body hair was absurd. He was reticent and churlish and swore too much and Aziraphale knew next to nothing about him.

He had never wanted anyone so desperately. 

He had written so many _perfect_ men into his books, all the while thinking the idea of finding someone even tolerable was a fantasy. All the while preferring his imagination to reality. And it turned out he’d been ridiculously wrong.

“Are you done gawking,” Crowley said, gruffly, breaking the spell.

Aziraphale barely opened his mouth to say yes before Crowley was back on the bed. He shuffled up beside Aziraphale to kiss him urgently again, deep and hard and messy, hands moving over his body as if he couldn’t get enough of him. 

Then he pulled away again.

“This is great,” he huffed. “But...would you roll over?”

Aziraphale complied, unquestioning, and Crowley pressed himself along the length of his back, wrapped one arm around his shoulders. Aziraphale could feel the blunt heat of his cock pressing against his arse. And then Crowley’s other hand curled around Aziraphale’s straining erection. He let out a low, shocked sound, and Crowley stroked him again.

“I’m not—“ he gasped. It was too much, too much friction, too much sensation. Crowley’s mouth on the meat of his shoulder, his hand moving along his length, Crowley’s cock hard against him as Crowley moved his own hips.

This really wasn’t going to take long at all, and he wanted to draw it out, to have this moment forever. But it didn’t, time continued relentlessly on, and the sensation rolled over him. His breath heaved out and he came over Crowley’s hand, and onto his own stomach.

Behind him, Crowley gasped as he began to stroke himself. Aziraphale reached back and wrapped his hand over Crowley’s so that they could move together. Crowley hissed something into his shoulder as he pushed up into their hands and Aziraphale felt the warmth of come over the small of his back. 

Crowley kissed his shoulder blade again, softly. “All right there?”

“Very much so,” Aziraphale answered. He felt slow and heavy and… _happy._

They lay tangled together for a moment longer, then Aziraphale reluctantly pushed himself off the still-made bed and went to the bathroom to clean himself up.

When he came back, Crowley had pulled the covers down and was burrowed into the sheets. Aziraphale had half expected to find him dressed and at the door, and he hovered at the side of the bed, unsure. 

“Come here,” Crowley said, throwing back the sheets and patting the bed, and Aziraphale climbed in. 

Crowley pulled him closer, until he was lying with his head on his chest. “There you go,” he said as he curled an arm around Aziraphale. “That’s not so bad, is it.” 

“I am familiar with the concept of cuddling, you know,” Aziraphale said into his chest. He was warm and smelled faintly of soap and deodorant and sex. 

Crowley snorted and the sound was deep and somehow soothing. One of his hands stroked through Aziraphale’s hair, and he shut his eyes. “Least you can do after you shag someone is give them a cuddle.”

Aziraphale smiled against Crowley’s skin. “Is that so?”

“Yep. I don’t make the rules. Just follow them.”

After a moment of listening to Crowley’s steady heartbeat, Aziraphale raised his head. “I do have something I want to talk to you about, though. You lied to me.”

Something flitted across Crowley’s face, and his expression tightened. “Yeah?” he said, and Aziraphale felt him go stiff beneath him. 

“I thought you said you weren’t a pervert,” he said quickly, wanting the tension gone from Crowley’s face.

The expression shifted from suspicion to something that seemed a lot like relief. “So did you. So we’re both liars, aren’t we?” 

“I suppose we are,” Aziraphale agreed, and put his head back down on Crowley’s chest. 


	6. Sex, Lies And Biscuits

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CW: have some more smut! If that’s not your thing, you can stop reading at the line that starts “It wasn’t a very big shower...” and pick it up again at “That was lovely.”  
> There are also more mentions of guns, and there’s some rather bad-decision making happening (but please trust me that it will all work out in the end).  
> Thank you again to Summerofspock for being a fantastic beta and friend, and to everyone else for all the support and encouragement.

If Crowley had any plan at all, it was to wait until Aziraphale seemed thoroughly asleep to slide away and slip out of the bed. That’s what he should have done. 

He found, though, as he lay there in the warmth and darkness, with Aziraphale’s weight on his chest, that he couldn’t move. He ran his fingers through the other man’s hair, and his other hand down his back. Aziraphale shifted slightly in his sleep, his breath warm against Crowley’s chest. 

He should get up and get dressed by the hazy glow of a streetlight coming in through the window. This would be easier for both of them if he wasn’t around for the rest of it. And Aziraphale would understand, one day. Or at least Crowley could hope he might understand, eventually. 

He knew he was lying to himself. Aziraphale definitely wouldn’t understand.

Tonight had not been what Crowley had expected, when he invited Aziraphale to dinner. But then nothing had been what he’d expected since Aziraphale had crashed into his car. It had been one ridiculous or terrifying thing after another. 

Except being with Aziraphale...that had been something else entirely. Something Crowley didn’t even really have a word for. It made him think of that cottage by the sea, and his vision of it expanded beyond one room and the smell of turpentine. 

He could see a kitchen where someone else might cook...wait, did Aziraphale even cook? He seemed like he might be the sort who did, might have a whole bloody bookcase of cookbooks. He didn’t seem a person who lived on nothing but tinned beans and toast and whiskey. He absolutely had the body of someone who liked long indulgent multi-course meals at places with actual cloth serviettes and hundred pound bottles of wine. Crowley wanted to take him to one of those restaurants so he could watch him eat his way through truffled foie gras foam or whatever fancy shit he wanted.

The cottage in his mind was now big enough for two people. Books stacked up on a bedside table. A dresser with beige and tartan clothes on one side, black on the other. 

He was pathetic. Completely and utterly pathetic. One handjob and he was fantasizing about playing house with someone he barely knew.

He should go. He shouldn’t indulge in this any further. But he didn’t move, just settled his hand over the softness above Aziraphale’s hips, and drifted into sleep.

* * *

Out in the dark early morning, an angry man in a grotty trench coat walked down a lane, swearing and limping. Occasionally, large shapes would move on the edges of his vision, and Hastur would startle, before remembering that they were cows. Fucking cows. He was going to eat steak every day for the rest of his life, and think about how much he hated cows as he did.

He checked his phone again and again, until he finally had one measly bar of service. He pressed the call button with one cold hand. 

“Mum!” Ligur’s voice came sleepily down the line. “What’s going on? I’ve been waiting for you all day.”

“Don’t fucking even start with that, Ligur. Are you in Craigmuir?”

“Yeah, been here since lunchtime, stuck in some shitty little pub watching telly. So have you got the book yet?”

“No, I do not fucking have the book.”

“Luke isn’t going to like it, Hastur.”

“Do you think I don’t fucking know that?”

“What do we do?”

“What we do is that you come and get me, and then we’re going to get the fucking book, and then we’re going to break every bone in that red-headed prick’s body.”

“Whose body?”

“Never mind. Just come and fucking get me, Ligur. Fucking now.”

* * *

He woke up to the feeling of someone very carefully trying not to jostle him, and he opened his eyes sleepily. Cool grey light filled the room, and Aziraphale’s face was there on the other pillow. 

“Oh my dear, I’m sorry. I had to move you so I could use the loo,” he said, apologetically. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“Whas’ the time,” Crowley mumbled, not quite ready to relinquish the hazy heaviness of sleep for whatever bullshit his day was going to hold. Then he remembered that he’d planned to sneak out when Aziraphale was sleeping, and reality slapped him like a wet fish to the face. No chance of that now, obviously. 

“It’s six thirty. I suppose I should get ready to get the bus,” Aziraphale said, not moving, just looking at him. He’d looked at him like that last night too, until it made Crowley want to crawl out of his skin. It had also made him unbearably turned on, and he was halfway there again. 

“No, no. No bus,” he said, remembering. 

“Well, how else am I—”

“Should have told you last night but I got...distracted. I’ve got you a ride.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale said, and he smiled, and Crowley really wanted to kiss him again. 

Steady on, he told himself. “You can’t... rescue your sister and then not be able to actually leave, that defeats the whole point of the rescuing. This young guy I know, Adam, he’ll drop the car off for you at nine am. You’ve just got to promise not to go crashing it.”

“I don’t know if I should go making any hasty guarantees about that. You’ve witnessed my driving.”

“I’ve been a _victim_ of your driving.” 

“So we’ve got... a few hours,” Aziraphale said, and licked his lips. His eyes fixed on Crowley’s mouth, and then drifted lower to where his body emerged from the tangle of sheets.

 _Bloody hell._ “Yeah, if you’re hungry there’s a caff that might be open soon...”

“I should have a shower then.” 

He watched as Aziraphale sat up, the sheets falling away from him, revealing the curve of his belly and the silver-white hair across his forearms and chest, before he rather self-consciously walked to the bathroom. His arse was so nice and round and full too, and Crowley pressed his eyes shut to stop himself from staring. He was going to need a shower himself, one roughly the temperature of the North Sea.

“I wouldn’t be... averse to company,” Aziraphale said from inside the bathroom doorway. 

Crowley’s eyes flew open. “At breakfast?” 

“No, I...ah...” Aziraphale‘s voice was low from the other room. “I meant in the shower.”

Ah, Crowley thought, and went from half aroused to completely, utterly, hopelessly turned on. “Gotcha,” he said into empty air. 

He shouldn’t. Absolutely should not. Here was his opening. All he needed to do was poke his head through the door and say, _hey, good offer, but I’ll pass this time, and thanks for last night, it was great, best time I’ve had in ages, we shouldn’t do it again for reasons that you will discover by lunchtime. Or maybe even by morning tea time. And then you’ll be very, very unhappy about this._

He heard the water start, and his mind helpfully supplied the image of runnels of water down Aziraphale’s broad back, trickling between the slopes of his shoulder blades, down to that perfect backside...

He got up and went into the bathroom; steam was already curling up into the air from the warm water. He carefully avoided his own reflection in the small mirror above the sink, and instead pushed back the shower curtain. 

It wasn’t a very big shower, and it wasn’t a very _nice_ shower, one of those moulded beige plastic ones above a small bath, but Aziraphale was there under the water, his hair wet, face pinking from the warmth. He turned as Crowley stepped in. 

They looked at each other. Aziraphale made the first move again, reaching for Crowley’s shoulder and drawing him under the warmth of the water. “Can I kiss you again?” 

“Agh,” Crowley said, and Aziraphale must have correctly interpreted that as a yes, because he moved closer and kissed Crowley’s mouth, very softly. 

_Jesus H. Christ on a cracker,_ Crowley thought, as Aziraphale’s tongue parted his lips and swept into his mouth. This was definitely not what he should be doing. Last night had been forgivable, maybe, but to do it again this morning? He was a piece of shit...and...and...

“I’m sorry about the morning breath,” Aziraphale said, pulling back fractionally. Water droplets clung to his lashes, and ran down his nose, and he was lovely. 

He was lovely, and Crowley was damned.

“Not a problem,” he said, and Aziraphale moved closer, touching him, putting one hand on each of Crowley’s hips, angling them so the warm spray of the shower ran over them both. Kissed him again, licked into his mouth and nipped at his bottom lip and... _fuck sake_ , Crowley needed to put a stop to this immediately. Instead he slid his hand down Aziraphale’s water-slicked back and groped at Aziraphale’s lovely, plush bum, which Aziraphale seemed to like, judging by the breathy little sounds he was making. 

Aziraphale began mouthing down his neck and then bit, softly, on his collarbone. “Would you object if I... sucked your cock?” he said in that exquisitely well-enunciated way he had.

“Nope,” was all Crowley managed to get out in return.

Aziraphale gave another of his sunshine-and-champagne-bubbles smiles and moved to kneel in the beige little bathtub, planting kisses along Crowley’s chest and ribs and one hipbone and then the other as he went. Crowley shut his eyes and held his breath until he felt the touch of Aziraphale’s mouth on him. A kiss, a lick down his length, before he took him in his mouth.

Crowley should really have expected it, after reading his book—as much as he’d been allowed—but it was still a surprise, that Aziraphale’s prim and proper mouth could be so exquisitely dirty. 

He reached out to steady himself against the slick wall of the shower cubicle. “Fucking hell.”

Aziraphale made a low sound, and moved his head as he sucked, one hand coming up to stroke along the inside of Crowley’s thigh, then higher, up behind his balls, fingers tracing the delicate skin there.

It felt so good, and Crowley hated himself, and then it felt better than good. “Shit, fuck, I’m sorry, I’m going to come now, you don’t have to—” but Aziraphale didn’t pull away, and he shattered and came in his mouth.

When he could breathe again, he forced his eyes open to watch Aziraphale stand up in the shower and wipe the water away from his face. His expression was somewhere between smug and embarrassed, and ridiculously adorable.

“What can I do?” Crowley said, weakly. 

“You could touch me again,” Aziraphale said. “I’d like that.”

Crowley wrapped his hand around Aziraphale’s cock, and kissed him again. He moved his hand slowly at first and then harder, twisting with each upstroke in a motion that had Aziraphale gasping and clutching at his shoulder, fingers digging into his bicep. 

“Don’t stop, that’s marvellous, don’t stop.”

“Wasn’t going to,” Crowley muttered, staring down between their bodies at the sight of his own hand moving over Aziraphale’s erection. It was pornographic, it shouldn’t be allowed. _He_ shouldn’t be allowed to touch him like this, and yet somehow he was.

After a few more firm pulls, Aziraphale’s head fell forward onto Crowley’s shoulder, and he pulsed into his hand. 

Crowley distantly registered that the water on his back was starting to cool, so he stepped back into it and pulled Aziraphale with him. The water sluiced down over them both, washing away the mess in his hand.

“That was...lovely,” Aziraphale finally said, into his neck.

“As good as in your books?”

Aziraphale gave a little laugh at that. “You should read some more to find out.”

“I thought you didn’t want me to.”

“I don’t think I’d mind so much now.”

“Maybe I will, one day.” Not like Aziraphale would ever know, either way. 

* * *

Six cups of coffee and two and a half danishes later, they waited outside the pub. The morning was brilliantly sunny, and the village looked ridiculously charming. Even Crowley could appreciate how nice it seemed in the golden slanting light, with the fading hills in the distance. 

Aziraphale had buttoned himself back up, bow tie and waistcoat reinstated, and they hadn’t touched since they’d left the room. Crowley had thought about sitting right next to him at breakfast, draping himself over him like a cat, just to enjoy a few more moments of physical contact, but the guilt had come back on with a rush. _That’s that then,_ Crowley thought, watching him fuss at his leather satchel as they waited for his ride. 

“You really don’t have to... hang around,” Aziraphale said finally.

“I know,” Crowley replied, making a show of looking at his wristwatch so he didn’t have to look the other man in the eye. “Just want to see you on your way.” 

“Why are you doing all this?

“Doing what?”

“Well, you know,” Aziraphale’s face went pink, which was oddly charming, considering how matter-of-fact he’d been earlier in the morning. “Everything...”

Crowley sucked in breath through his teeth. “I would have thought it was bloody obvious after last night. And this morning.”

“You don’t have to particularly like someone to have sex with them.”

Christ, that was like a slap in the face. “But I do like you. And I think you like me too.”

Aziraphale hesitated, then ploughed on, as if he had no choice but to speak. “It’s just,” he said, his face and neck going even more pink again, and now Crowley knew his chest would be too. “I’m not your problem anymore.” 

“You’ve never been a _problem._ And I meant what I said about texting me, when you’ve got everything sorted, ok?”

“I shall.” He turned to Crowley, and bit his lip, one hand worrying at his waistcoat. Crowley’s stomach turned itself in unaccountable shapes, and he regretted having so much coffee. “Crowley—I just want to say. I do like you, very much, and these past few days I—”

Adam Young chose that exact moment to arrive in a black Bentley, which he parked in front of the pub with a showy squeal of tyres.

Adam was a handsome kid, somewhere in his early 20s, with curly hair and a face that had made him popular with everyone from the town’s old ladies to their granddaughters, and a few of their grandsons as well. He had a thing for old cars, dog racing, and he was the town’s resident small time drug dealer. He dealt primarily in high quality hydroponically grown weed, and apart from a few uppers and downers, steered well clear of anything harder.

Crowley had no idea what someone young and charismatic as Adam was doing living out here, but here he was. 

Unfortunately, he seemed to regard Crowley as some sort of criminal godfather. It hadn’t mattered how often Crowley had tried to explain that going to gaol wasn’t cool, Adam seemed to think _it was_ and _he was,_ and regarded Crowley’s drunken stories about his disastrous youth as the ultimate in entertainment. 

“Good morning you sly old devil,” he called as he hopped out of the car. “You didn’t come back last night and I waited up for you! I was worried sick!”

The way he said it made it very clear he had not been at all worried, and he smiled widely at Crowley as if he knew exactly why he was wearing the same clothes he’d been in last night, when he’d left Adam’s house. The little shit. 

“This is your idea of suitable transportation?” Aziraphale said, archly, looking over the Bentley as if taking in the car’s general patina of age and finding the whole thing distinctly lacking. 

“I used to have a very sensible Land Rover until someone drove it off a hill,” Crowley muttered.

“Sorry,” Adam said, winsomely. “It’s what I had handy.”

Aziraphale flashed the boy a smile. “I’m sorry. I appreciate it, and thank you so much Adam.”

Adam was still looking at Crowley knowingly. “Any _friend_ of Crowley’s is a friend of mine,” he said, and handed Aziraphale the keys. “Now listen. I’ve done some work on her but she’s still a bit rough. The doors don’t lock and it’s the original transmission, so don’t ride the clutch. You can drive a manual, can’t you? Ok and it doesn’t have any seatbelts so if you see any cops try to drive slow. They probably won’t pull you over, you look like a flat cap sort.”

Another car pulled up behind them, a dark green Aston Martin Zagato from sometime in the 1960s. Pepper, one of Adam’s henchpeople, leaned out the window.

“Hey, Crowley! We finished that book—” She began, but Crowley gave her a tight, quick shake of his head and she abandoned the sentence.

“Oh yeah, that Dan Brown you leant me,” Adam said, casually. “It’s a good read.” 

“Yeah?” Crowley replied, also very casually. “Good to know.”

“Well, get her back to me and then we’ll talk about what you owe me,” Adam slid into the Aston Martin’s passenger seat, and it peeled off down the street in a cloud of exhaust. 

“Do you know everyone in this town?” Aziraphale said, still frowning at the Bentley. 

“Unfortunately.” 

“Well then. I just need my suitcase. Wouldn’t do to forget it after I dragged it so far, would it? I’ll be back in a jiffy.” He disappeared back into the pub.

Crowley shoved his hands as far into his pockets as they could go, and leaned against the Bentley to wait. As soon as Aziraphale drove off, he’d call the cops again, let them know it was all going down, and then by the time the whole thing was over he’d be halfway to Aberdeen. He’d buy a crappy car there, and then head straight to the channel tunnel and go to France. Mooch around in Provence or somewhere and come back in a couple of months when everything had died down to pack up his house. It would all be fine.

Aziraphale and his sister would be fine, too. The police would make sure of it.

He had to tell himself that, anyway. It wouldn’t do to give into the guilt. He was just doing his best to survive, and he’d set it all up as best he could. 

Then he felt it, something hard jabbed against the small of his back, accompanied by the unpleasant sensation of someone looming behind him. 

“Hello there,” a rough voice said in his ear. 

He turned his head very slightly. It was the pale-haired man in the trench coat, the one with the gun, leaning in close. 

Crowley hadn’t even heard him approach, he’d been too busy with his self-pitying nonsense. Behind him loomed another man, dark-haired and dark-eyed, but just as menacing as Pale-and-Grubby.

“I think,” trench coat man said, “we should all hop in the car and wait for your friend to come back, and then we are going to go for a little drive.”

* * *

Aziraphale took a moment to compose himself in the room.

He looked briefly at the crumpled bedsheets, and thought about Crowley. The lovely sounds he’d made, the way he’d tasted, the feel of his hands on Aziraphale’s skin.

Aziraphale had always been helpless in the face of his own desires. He’d never been able to keep an opened packet of biscuits in his kitchen—he’d eat them all in one sitting, guiltily, without an ounce of control. Once he knew how much he liked something, he wanted it, again and again. 

And now Aziraphale wanted Crowley again, and he wanted all of him. 

He wanted to know what would be like to make love to Crowley in every way he could think of. To run his fingers over every part of him from his sharp ankles to the arch of his eyebrows. To wake up on a lazy morning and kiss him senseless, to take him to the theatre, to go for a picnic, to hold hands walking in a park, to move inside him slowly and gently (or hard and fast and desperate). 

He’d had one—technically _two_ biscuits—and now he wanted the whole damn packet. And then he wanted to go to the shop and buy every single box.

He took his suitcase back downstairs, and walked out to the car. He saw Crowley was sitting in the front passenger seat. Perhaps he wanted a lift somewhere? And if a few more moments in his company was all Aziraphale would get, he’d take it. 

That’s when he saw the pale-haired man in a trench coat sitting behind him, and another man beside him in the back seat.

And then he saw the glint of sunlight off the object in Trench Coat’s hand. A gun pointed straight at Crowley’s head.

The rear window of the Bentley was rolled down and the man leaned out slightly, lifting the gun as if making sure it was clearly visible from where Aziraphale stood on the pavement. 

“In you get,” he called out the window. 

Crowley turned his head, jaw hard, and Aziraphale saw his throat work as if he was swallowing. 

Aziraphale hovered hopelessly, looking up and down the street. There were some people further down coming out of what seemed to be an antique store, but he couldn’t imagine any of them would help. He was on his own. 

“I wouldn’t think about it for too long, Mr. Wilder,” Trench Coat sneered. “I’m not in a very good mood today, and my fingers get a bit twitchy when I’m grumpy.”

“I just need to put my suitcase in the back.” Aziraphale’s voice came out much more smoothly than he expected. Perhaps he was finally becoming used to being imperilled. 

“Why don’t you get out and give him a hand, Ligur? Make sure he doesn’t get any silly ideas,” Trench Coat said to the man next to him. He climbed out and glowered at Aziraphale as he opened the Bentley’s boot. 

He may well be growing used to being in danger, but this time couldn’t think of a single way to get out of this, not without risking Crowley’s life. And then they’d probably just shoot him as well, and then what would happen to Anathema?

Trench Coat’s friend waved him to the front seat, and he sat down heavily against the aged leather. Crowley didn’t look at him, just stared ahead; his eyes hidden behind those dark sunglasses, his hands balled into tight fists on his thighs.

“Now, mateys,” Trench Coat said with something like satisfaction, “We’re all just friends here, and we’re going to have a little chat, lay down some ground rules, before we go for a little drive. We need to make sure no-one gets hurt.” Crowley gave a bark of laughter at that, and Trench Coat snarled, “Is that funny to you?” 

“Not at all,” Crowley said, cool again, his face returning to blank unreadibility. 

“Didn’t think so. Well. Listen up. Rule one is... If either of you try anything, I’ll shoot you. Rule two is...the same as rule one. Got it?”

“Please...I’ll just give you the book,” Aziraphale said, and began to turn, but the gun flashed in his peripheral vision and he fixed his eyes back ahead. “That’s what you’re after, isn’t it? You can have it. Just let Crowley go. He isn’t any part of this.” 

_Sorry, Anathema,_ he thought, _I’ll figure something out. If I’m still alive._

Crowley risked a glance at him now, and Aziraphale would have reached for his hand if there had been a chance it wouldn’t have resulted in either of them being shot. 

Trench Coat made a soft tutting sound. “Unfortunately, Mr. Crowley is indeed a part of this, and has been ever since he told me that little porky pie back at that hut.” He leaned forward, and pressed the muzzle of the gun against the back of Crowley’s neck. “And as for yesterday. Well. I wonder how good he’ll be at driving without any hands?”

“Please,” Aziraphale said, panic tightening in his chest now. “None of this is his fault at all. I’ll give you the book and... everything else I can if you let him go... I have quite decent savings and...”

“Angel. Shut up, it won’t help,” Crowley hissed. 

Trench Coat gave a low, throaty, and utterly humourless chuckle. “How sweet. But he’s right. We’re not open to counter offers at this stage.”

“Not even this one?” A different voice said.

Hastur made a horrified choking sound.

Aziraphale couldn’t help but look, and if it was possible for his heart to sink more, it would have. 

Another man was leaning in the window of the back seat of the car, a short black gun in his hand pointing directly at Trench Coat’s head. The other back door opened, and a slim woman slid inside beside Trench Coat and his friend. She too had a gun, which she held steadily in a way that suggested she knew how to use it. 

“Hello, Crowley,” the man hanging in the window said calmly. He had a round face and a bald head, and looked more like a friendly butcher than someone who should be holding a gun. Except for his face. His face was blank and cold. “Got yourself in a spot of bother, have you?”

“Sandy,” Crowley replied, coolly. “Looks like, doesn’t it?”

“Give the gun to Uriel please,” the bald man said to Trench Coat.

The pale man passed over his gun, and the man in the window nodded before moving to open the passenger side door. “Now, Crowley, do you want to explain what’s happening here? How did you come to be fraternizing with someone Gabriel is very keen to see?” His eyes flicked towards Aziraphale. Gabriel. Hadn’t Crowley said that last night?

Aziraphale shot a look at Crowley, who was steadfastly staring at the bald man and apparently ignoring Aziraphale entirely now.

“We had a run in on the road to my house,” Crowley spoke slowly, almost reluctantly. “He was talking about a book, said he had to deliver it somewhere, figured it was something to do with Gabriel. I was just about to send him your way.”

Aziraphale felt something cold and heavy grow in the pit of his stomach. Crowley still didn’t look towards him.

“Ah.” Sandy gave a nod. “I’m sure he’ll be suitably grateful. I think we’ve got a job for you coming up actually. Shall I gave you a call next week?”

“Sure,” Crowley agreed. “Next week. And I s’pose I can leave all this to you. This is Adam Young’s car though. He’s expecting it back today.”

“Certainly. We’ll make sure it gets back to him. See you soon, Crowley.” 

Aziraphale watched with horror as Crowley unfolded himself from the passenger seat, and stepped out of the car.

Some things fell into place, then, in Aziraphale’s mind. Crowley’s driving. His reluctance to call the police. How calm he’d been at the sight of the pale man’s gun. Whatever the name Gabriel meant. Why he might have stuck around. What last night might have actually been about. 

“Good luck,” Crowley said, and Aziraphale wasn’t sure if it was to him or to the bald man who took his place in the passenger seat.

Without even a backwards glance, Crowley walked away.


	7. Crowley Ex Machina

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wheee! The penultimate chapter!  
> Thanks to everyone who has yelled at me in the comments!  
> And a massive thank you again to beta and cheerleader extraordinaire Summerofspock, and also to everyone who listened to me whinge about the difficulties of writing action.  
> CW: a bit more implied violence and some threats. No-one gets hurt, promise.

There was nothing for Aziraphale to do but drive. He didn’t have a choice in the matter, or any matters right now. Events had spiralled so far beyond his control now that all he could do was let himself be carried along by them, a helpless twig on roaring whitewater.

The Bentley was heavy and hard to steer, and he clutched the steering wheel with a white-knuckled grip. _Don’t think, just drive,_ he chanted to himself. _Don’t think, just drive._

“Turn here,” Sandy instructed, and soon they were driving down another road with scenery Aziraphale would have appreciated if he weren’t so focused on his own survival.

“Lovely day for it, isn’t it, Uriel?” Sandy said cheerfully. 

“Very nice,” Uriel replied in the blank tones of any underling forced to agree with a superior. 

“Do you know who I work for?” Trench Coat said from the back seat, indignantly.

“The question is, do you know who I work for?” Sandy replied. He lifted the gun. It was black and squared off and very real. “That’s what you should be thinking about in this particular situation.” 

After that, the other two men in the car were malevolently, resentfully silent. 

The car travelled along, the only sound the tyres on the road, until Sandy began whistling. Aziraphale wasn’t sure if it was _The Girl From Ipanema_ or something else, either way it was one of the worst things he’d ever heard in his life. 

He clenched the steering wheel even more tightly. He wouldn’t even give Crowley a thought. 

Except of course he did, the image of Crowley walking off down the street replayed again and again in his mind. He’d simply walked off. As if they hadn’t just...Aziraphale’s mind threw up a host of synonyms ranging from the sentimental to the vulgar, from _made love_ to _gone to bed_ with to _fucked,_ and finally he settled on vague euphemism. As if they hadn’t _just been intimate._

The drive through the heather—or was it gorse, why did he keep forgetting—was perhaps only forty five minutes, and then Sandy told him to turn down a long gravel driveway. He slowed the Bentley down to a crawl and drove it up to an ornate set of high black metal gates tipped with spikes. A high fence sloped away from them on both sides into dense thickets of trees. The sunlight had disappeared now, and thick grey clouds were scudding over the sky, bands of rain sweeping across the countryside. It was cold again, too, and Aziraphale felt chilled down to his bones.

An intercom was set into the sandstone blocks, and the bald men instructed him to announce their arrival. Aziraphale did as he’d been told. An indistinct crackling issued from the speaker and the gates swung inward. 

The long driveway was flanked by some sort of deciduous tree, their leaves caught in that brief moment of turning brilliant reds and golds, and at the end a large manor house loomed beyond a circular driveway. It was grey and forbidding and intensely ostentatious. It even had a turret. 

Sandy directed him to park the Bentley, and then, with a twitch of that gun, waved everyone out. The woman he’d called Uriel produced cable ties from somewhere on her person, and made handcuffs of sorts for the two other men.

“What about him?” Trench Coat sneered in Aziraphale’s direction. “Why doesn’t he get trussed up like a chicken?”

Sandy gave a little nasally laugh. “Oh, he’s not going to do anything foolish, is he? Now. Bring the book.”

Aziraphale obeyed, and fetched his satchel. For a moment, he wondered if he should attempt something foolish, like attack one of them with his bag or start running off down the driveway, but even before the thought completed itself, he knew he wouldn’t. 

This wasn’t a game; none of them were playing around. Uriel in particular had an intensity about her that was possibly even more terrifying than Trench Coat’s snarling, and Aziraphale thought she’d shoot someone as soon as smile at them.

The five of them went in an odd convoy into the house through a wide front door and into a large, gloomy entrance hall. The walls were wood-panelled in a rich timber that may have been mahogany, and Aziraphale had enough time to notice old oil paintings and heavy, dark wooden furniture, before Sandy opened a door and gestured them all through into another room. 

This one appeared to be an office of sorts, lined with bookshelves, and a fire blazing in an impressive stone hearth along one wall. Beyond that, Aziraphale saw none of the details, because Anathema was there, perched in an old leather club chair. 

“Aziraphale!” She was on her feet instantly and caught him in a tight hug. 

“Darling, darling, I’m so sorry. I’m so hopeless at saving people,” Aziraphale said roughly into her dark hair. She was there and warm and, most importantly, alive.

“You’re here now, aren’t you?” She spoke into his shoulder, her voice hitching. 

“Yes, yes, I am and don’t cry. Are you all right? Are you hurt?”

“No, no, I’m fine. Are you hurt? What happened to you? Where have you been?”

He didn’t know what to say, and he didn’t get a chance to say anything, because a too-loud American voice boomed out.

“This is a charming reunion, just precious. Nothing warms my heart more than seeing loved ones reunited. But we do have some business to get down to.”

The voice belonged to a man Aziraphale had somehow not seen when he’d come in the room—he didn’t know how he hadn’t noticed him. He was tall and good looking in a black and white movie star way, his dark hair slicked back from his aggressively handsome face. He stood behind a massive oak and leather desk, looking out over the room with an expression that immediately made Aziraphale feel cold, appraised, and deeply dispensable. 

“This is Gabriel,” Anathema said, cooly. “My charming host.”

She stepped back from Aziraphale’s arms, and tucked her smaller hand into his. He squeezed it, hoping to communicate courage to her, or at least solidarity.

“You must be Mr. Wilder.” Gabriel walked around the desk and extended a hand, which Aziraphale almost shook simply by polite habit. Then he remembered. This was the man who’d kidnapped his sister, and threatened her life. He snapped his arm back. 

“No?” Gabriel said, his smile hardening. “Understandable I suppose. And who are these two?”

Trench Coat and his friend exchanged looks. “That’s for us to know, and you not to.”

“How interesting. Well. I’m guessing you’re both also after the book. Or you’re after it on behalf of someone else.”

“That’s right, we’re here for—” Trench Coat’s friend began, but Trench Coat elbowed him. 

“Shut up, Ligur,” he snapped.

Gabriel considered them both as if looking at a pair of cockroaches. “I’m sure you’ll change your mind about telling me when we get to know each other better. So, let’s get this show on the road, Mr. Wilder, and then you and your sister will be free to go.”

This time, Anathema squeezed Aziraphale’s hand.

He pulled the packet out of his satchel, and then handed it over.

“Excellent, excellent. Very well wrapped, I must say.” Gabriel returned to the other side of the desk and settled in the chair behind it, and produced a pair of scissors from one of the drawers. He carefully sliced through layer after layer of tape, and then slid out another well-wrapped packet.

Even through the fear and the shock and the exhaustion of it all, Aziraphale still found himself intently watching Gabriel unwrap the package. At least he would see the bloody book now.

“Aziraphale,” Anathema whispered urgently. “The packaging looks different. Did you open it?”

“Of course not—” Aziraphale responded, but he didn’t have time to say anything else, as Gabriel pulled out the book from the final layer of wrapping. 

He’d always thought the phrase _his blood ran cold_ was merely an overused cliche, but now he knew it was a description of a very real physical sensation. It was indeed possible to feel as though every red blood cell in one’s body had been replaced by little chips of ice floating in a frozen slurry. 

Because he recognized the book immediately. The blue cover. The muscular man’s torso that took up two-thirds of the front. The (rather ugly, even he admitted) font of the title. His own name, right there, floating above the chest muscles. It was his third book, _Betrayed By the Bad Boy._ Not his favourite of his own works, and even when he’d been writing it, he’d described it as a “cynical money making exercise,” but of course it was one of his best sellers. 

“Shit,” Anathema said. 

Gabriel took a slow, deep breath and turned the novel over in his hands before setting it carefully down before him. He laid his hands flat on the table on either side of the book, and seemed to take a moment to collect himself before he looked up at Anathema and Aziraphale. 

“Very funny, Mr Wilder,” he said, very slowly and very clearly. “Now _where_ is my book?”

Aziraphale stared at the paperback novel, so small and tawdry on the vast expanse of the desk. 

The only person who could have taken the real book was Crowley. It must have been Crowley. 

“I don’t know,” he said, his voice timid and distant in his own ears. “He must have stolen it—”

“Come on, Mr Wilder,” Gabriel leaned back in his chair, and it gave a little squeak. “Do you really expect me to believe you don’t know where the book is?”

“Yes! I met a man, you see. We had a little accident, and, well, he must have stolen it when when we—”

“Tell me where the book is.” Gabriel’s expression was flat and hard. 

“I can’t, I don’t know—”

“If I may interrupt,” Sandy said over Aziraphale’s stammering. “He was with Crowley when we found him.”

Gabriel looked from Aziraphale to Sandy and back again. “Anthony Crowley? The forger? My forger?”

“Yes, sir, that Crowley.”

Gabriel steepled his fingers together. “Anthony Crowley stole my book?”

Anathema looked at Aziraphale and mouthed, _Who?_

_Crowley._

If Anathema only knew what had happened, what he’d done, she’d be furious with him. 

He was furious with himself, for his own stupidity, for trusting Crowley, for thinking he had feelings for him, which of course he hadn’t, he realised that now, they hadn’t been feelings at all. Just a sad delusion. Aziraphale had been taken in by his face and those legs and his smile and the way he’d kissed and every bloody thing about him. He’d been thoroughly had by a lying, two-faced, conniving, heart-breaking fiend.

“This is an interesting situation, isn’t it,” Gabriel said. It wasn’t a question. 

Aziraphale squeezed Anathema’s hand, once more. “I’m so sorry, darling,” he said. “I’ve made a complete mess of everything.”

“Yes,” Gabriel said. “You certainly have.”

He opened his mouth to say something else, but a knock on the door interrupted him.

“Who the fuck is it now? Santa Claus?” Trench Coat said, which was the only thing he’d said so far in their short and unpleasant acquaintance that Aziraphale agreed with.

The door opened, and Crowley stepped in. “Hi guys,” he said, with a wide, charming smile.

* * *

If this had been one of Aziraphale’s novels, he might have described the feeling of seeing Crowley again as an overwhelming tide of emotion. Or perhaps he’d have written it as an internal battle, relief and desire warring against fear and suspicion. He might have written about the sense memory of his mouth on Crowley’s skin, about the way his eyes had fluttered shut in the shower when Aziraphale had gone down on his knees, the way he’d tasted. 

He might have written paragraph after paragraph about hope and dread and how they were two sides of the same coin, a coin that was spinning in the air at that very moment. He might have written that it felt like time had stopped, and he might have spun out the agony of it out deliciously, postponing the inevitable conclusion for his readers, holding off the payout just that tiny bit longer. 

In reality, it didn’t feel at all like delicious agony. It mainly felt like heartburn. 

It had been probably an hour since Crowley had got out of the car and walked away and Aziraphale had thought he’d never see him again. And yet here he was. He was still wearing his sunglasses. Some of his hair had escaped his pony tail and fell messily around his face. 

Gabriel stared. “Tony! We were just talking about you.”

“Yeah, I thought my name might pop up,” Crowley said. He sauntered in carelessly, strolled across the room to stand in front of the fireplace. 

As he went, he gave Aziraphale one of those almost-smiles, which could have meant anything at all, given that his eyes were hidden behind his sunglasses. “Hello, Aziraphale. And you must be Anathema. Has Gabriel shown you the T-Rex skeleton in the billiards room yet?”

There was a stretch of strained silence in the room. Gabriel was still looking at Crowley with something like astonishment. 

“What’s going on?” Trench Coat’s friend said in a stage whisper. 

“Fucked if I know,” Hastur replied, equally loudly. 

Gabriel snapped a look in their direction, and both Sandy and Uriel shifted, as though readying themselves for some action. The tension in the room was almost thick enough to see. 

“According to Mr. Wilder here, you stole my book,” Gabriel finally said. 

Crowley’s hands were empty, Aziraphale noticed. Where was the book? Had he hidden it somewhere? What was he doing? Was he trying to get himself killed? Was he here to help Aziraphale or...

“Gabriel. Gabe. Stolen is such a nasty way of putting it,” Crowley said mildly, as if chatting about the weather. “What if I said, I’ll give you the exact location of the book after Aziraphale and his sister are home safe in London?”

Aziraphale still wasn’t sure what he felt, whether he was going to be sick or not. All he knew was that he couldn’t take his eyes from Crowley’s face.

“What if I break every single bone in your body, and rip out your liver and feed it back to you?” Sandy sneered, all trace of friendly neighbourhood butcher gone now, replaced entirely by a horrifying Sweeney Todd. 

Gabriel held up one hand. “No. Let’s discuss this like reasonable people. I don’t know how you’ve ended up wrapped up in this business, but I can assure you, it’s in the best interests of everyone involved if you just tell us where the book is.”

Crowley tilted his head sideways. “Sorry, you’ll have to be a bit more specific than that. Are you threatening me?”

This was the thing that seemed to break Gabriel’s veneer of pretending-not-to-be-a-sociopath, and his face instantly purpled with rage. “Of course I’m threatening you, you little shit. That book is worth a thousand times any of your horrible little forgeries, do you understand? Tell me where it is.”

Crowley considered this as someone might consider a waiter presenting a menu. “Or what?”

“You either tell me, or I’m going to march everyone in this room outside and Uriel and Sandy here are going to start shooting,” Gabriel snarled.

Afterwards, Aziraphale would remember the next few minutes as more of a series of disconnected vignettes than a coherent whole.

Trench Coat shouted something, and from the edge of his vision Aziraphale saw the man and his friend leap to their feet. They were both moving and then Trench Coat slammed into Sandy’s back, and the other man barrelled into Uriel.

Something flew from Sandy’s grasp, something black and dull. It was the gun, and it arced across the room and then landed at his feet. At least, he registered dimly, it didn’t go off, just thunked heavily against his left shoe. Right where he could reach down and grab it.

It felt as if someone had turned down the volume in Aziraphale’s mind. Everything seemed suddenly very clear. He looked down at his feet, at the gun, lying on the richly patterned rug beneath his feet, and he knew what he had to do.

He bent over, picked the gun up, and lifted the muzzle to point straight at Gabriel. “Everyone! Stop!” 

The effect was immediate and rather gratifying. Uriel had managed to shove Trench Coat’s friend away, and she scrambled up and then froze in place when she saw Aziraphale was holding the gun. Hastur and Sandy were on the floor, but when they noticed Aziraphale, they both stopped rolling around and stared up at him. Gabriel slowly lifted his hands. 

Crowley was standing stock still, any hint of his former nonchalance gone now. Aziraphale could feel more than see Anathema’s shock, as if she was vibrating on some higher plane.

“Anathema, would you be so kind as to relieve this young lady of her weapon?” Aziraphale inclined his head towards Uriel. He was surprised by how calm he sounded. 

It seemed that Uriel was about to argue, but Aziraphale shifted the muzzle of the gun to point straight at her. She swallowed, and passed her own firearm into Anathema’s hand. Anathema took it gingerly and then stepped back to Aziraphale’s side. 

_Now what?_

He looked to Crowley, who was staring at him, and smiling. 

“Where’s the book, Crowley?” Aziraphale said. “I’d like to give it to him so we can all leave.” 

“Aziraphale—” Crowley took a step closer, but Aziraphale frowned at him and he stopped, the smile sliding off his face. 

“Crowley. Where is the book?”

“You know he isn’t going to let you go after you give him the book, right?”

“That’s a lie, Mr Wilder,” Gabriel said. “Ask your sister, we’ve been nothing but kind since she came to stay.”

“You kidnapped me off the street,” Anathema snapped back, indignantly.

“That was just business. Of course we’re going to let you go,” Gabriel spread his arms wide, and he looked every inch a used care salesman.

“He’s not a man you can trust,” Crowley said urgently.

“And I can trust you, can I?” Aziraphale snapped, and Crowley didn’t argue, didn’t respond with an “of course” or some other pretty lie. He just nodded, once. “Mr. Gabriel. If we give you the book, will you let us all go now? Including Crowley.”

Gabriel’s eyes flicked around the faces in the room. “Of course.”

“Where’s the book, Crowley?” Aziraphale asked, again. 

“Are you sure about this, Aziraphale?” Crowley said softly. 

“I want to take my sister home, and forget any of this ever happened.”

Crowley nodded at that. He slipped his sunglasses off and tucked them into his jacket pocket, before reaching behind himself with one long arm, beneath his own jacket, to produce something that seemed to have been stuffed down the back of his jeans.

Anathema inhaled sharply. “You had the Book of Angels down your trousers...Do you even know what it’s worth?”

“‘Bout 15 million quid, maybe more,” Crowley replied. He shrugged. “Wouldn’t fit in my pocket.” 

The book was about the same size as Aziraphale’s own novel, and its red leather cover was patterned with Celtic looking knot work. It was smaller than Aziraphale thought it would be, small and rather dull and unimpressive, given all the bother it had caused. It was just a book. Just one small, red book.

“Give it to me,” Gabriel said. “And then you can all walk out of here. No hard feelings.”

Crowley seemed to consider this, and then his eyes flitted back to Aziraphale’s face. “I’m sorry,” he said.

He turned and fanned the book open, and then dropped it into the fire, where it caught alight immediately with a bright flare. 

Anathema let out a small shriek of horror and Gabriel let out a louder one, and Trench Coat darted forward; without thinking, Aziraphale lifted the gun up and squeezed the trigger. 

The gun leapt in his hand and the burst of sound exploded through the room with a cracking boom. He almost dropped the gun from the recoil, but somehow kept a hold of it, although he already knew his arm would ache later. His ears rang from the sound, a high pitched tinny whine. A slight plume of plaster dust drifted down from the ceiling from the bullet hole.

But everyone was still again, every eye on Aziraphale’s face. 

The book still blazed merrily in the fireplace, and the smell of it was dreadful, like scorching plastic and burnt sausages. Flakes of the pages drifted up the chimney, and Aziraphale couldn’t bring himself to care at all. Even if someone pulled it out, it was already charred beyond recognition. 

Gabriel broke the moment first. “I will kill fucking you. Every last one of you,” he said, in a harsh, awful voice, and Aziraphale had no doubt he meant it.

“Yeah, you’re not going to get the chance,” Crowley said. “The police are coming now.”

Aziraphale realised that the ringing in his ears was also now the sound of sirens. 

Gabriel’s face twitched as if he was considering trying something stupid, but Aziraphale pointed the gun at him once more. “Stay where you are. Everyone, just stay where you are.” He looked at Crowley, and everything he wanted to say tumbled out of his head, so he settled for “Why?”

Crowley opened his mouth to reply, but whatever he was going to say in return was lost forever as the door of the room flew violently inward. 

It was the police.

* * *

There was rather a lot of them, and there was rather a lot of shouting, and Aziraphale remembered he was holding the gun, so he lowered it carefully to the ground. More and more officers swarmed in and handcuffed everyone, including both Aziraphale and Anathema, although a few moments later they were un-handcuffed. 

They were taken outside the manor house, where there were more police, and a whole fleet of police cars and vans. There was an ambulance too, and someone kept offering Aziraphale a warm blanket, which he declined. He kept hold of Anathema’s hand, and watched as the police did their various police things. 

He felt vaguely as if he was floating over his own right shoulder, tired and drained but still somehow jittery, as though he’d stayed up all night and then drunk far too much coffee. His ears were still ringing from the gunshot.

Someone came and told them they’d be taken to Aberdeen to the station to give their statements, and then someone else came and gave them each tea in styrofoam cups, and then someone else came and offered them both blankets again. 

Anathema turned to look at him. “That was so brave, Aziraphale. You saved us. And what happened with you and that man? The book burner? I don’t understand any of it.”

Aziraphale looked down into his bitter, undrinkable tea. He didn’t know how to even begin. “I’ll tell you everything, I promise. Just give me time to catch my breath.”

They watched as Gabriel and Sandy and Uriel were led outside, and then driven away in a van, followed by Trench Coat and his friend.

Finally, Crowley was marched out of the house by a pair of police officers, his hands cuffed behind his back. Aziraphale watched as they walked him over the gravel of the driveway towards a police car. 

Crowley had come back. And then he’d burned the book. None of it made any sense, and Aziraphale couldn’t even begin to understand it. Crowley was a wretched, awful man, and _he’d come back._

And the worst of it—the absolute most ridiculous part of it—was that Aziraphale still wanted him. He wanted Crowley as desperately as he had the night before, when he’d boldly kissed him. He wanted him as if none of it had happened. Even after he’d stolen from Aziraphale. Even after he’d lied. Even after he’d burned the book. Even as he was led away by the police, Aziraphale still wanted him. 

Crowley didn’t look at Aziraphale until the officers let him go so he could climb into the back of the police car, and then their eyes only met briefly before the door was slammed shut. Then the car drove away, and it was all over. 


	8. Stative Verbs, Present Tense

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey! Thank you so much for coming on this journey with me. I hope you’ve enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.  
> Thank you again to Summerofspock, who is a wonderful beta and helped me find just the right words to wrap this up.  
> And thank you also to everyone who commented and left kudos. You have my undying affection.  
> And finally, an enormous tubular thank you to everyone at the GoEvents server.  
> (There aren’t any CWs for this chapter except for completely gratuitous smut.)

_Six months later_

_The sun rose over the distant hills, painting the canyon around them in rich gold light. Zachariah breathed in the warm, familiar scent of his stallion’s neck before he slung the saddle-rug over his back._

_Behind him, he heard Antonio kick out the fire. Something was bothering him, but Zachariah knew him well enough now to wait._

_“Zach,” he finally said, and Zachariah stilled his hands on the tack. “You should go back to the city.”_

_Zachariah turned to look at the other man. His hair glowed like embers in the early morning sunlight._

_“What are you talking about? I’m coming with you,” Zachariah said._

_Antonio stared at his own boots. “I got nothing for you, Zachariah,” he said finally. “Nothing but trouble and my horse. What kind of a life is that?”_

_Zachariah bit on the words that bubbled up in his mouth. Instead, he crossed the space between them._

_“I don’t care about that,” he said. “I just want you. You’re enough for me.”_

_Antonio’s eyes met his, reluctantly. “Even after everything?”_

_“I love you,” he said. “Even after everything. So, are you coming?”_

Anathema closed the book—his book, _Come Hell or High Water_ —and put it back on the display case. Her voice was lovely, even though having his own words read to him was some sort of horrible torture, especially in her faux-Texan accent.

“You know this isn’t my genre,” she said, and Aziraphale gave her his opinion of that via an offended sniff. “No no, let me finish. It’s not my genre, but this is a masterpiece.”

“Hush,” Aziraphale said, fishing one more of the salted caramel truffles out of the box. Just one more, he told himself, although he knew he was lying and the box would be gone before lunchtime. 

“I’m just saying, it truly is the _War and Peace_ of gay cowboy romance novels,” Anathema continued, smiling. She’d stacked a whole display area in the front window of the shop with copies of his book, as she always did. 

“Ah no, I’m certain that’s _Brokeback Mountain_ , and I didn’t write it,” he replied, equally lightly. “But I can see why you’d be confused.”

“You really are a hopeless romantic, you know that?”

“I prefer to think of myself as a hopeful realist. And as it happens, I’ve decided my next book is going to end badly. Realistically. Someone is going to get cancer, and someone else is going to have an affair. It will be dreadfully sad and win the Man Booker.” He meant it as a joke, but it came out rather more bitterly than he’d intended, and Anathema gave him a softly sympathetic look. Though why _she_ felt sorry for _him_ when she was the one who’d been kidnapped, who’d lost her priceless-beyond-imagining book. Aziraphale’s slightly bruised heart didn’t compare. 

“Regardless,” he added quickly. “Let us celebrate the publication of my fabulous gay cowboy novel, eat these truffles, and speak about something else.”

She gazed at him him steadily from behind her glasses, and then relented. “If you insist. Actually, I do want to talk to you about the barista—”

“His name is Gary and he already has a boyfriend.”

“I told you you’d waited too long.”

“You did indeed. You are, as always, completely correct. I suppose I must throw myself to the mercy of one of your internet dating whatsits. My profile will be: famous author seeks boy-toy for romantic Ritz lunches.”

Anathema smiled again, but took the hint, and busied herself with more shelf re-arranging. Aziraphale ate one more truffle, and then another, before turning his attention to his laptop and the outline of his next book. 

Warlock snuffled in his sleep at his feet and then farted, and Anathema hummed as she walked around the shop.

Aziraphale stared at the screen, but couldn’t focus on the words. When he thought back on that handful of days in Scotland, they glowed in glorious technicolor, leaving reality drab and grey in comparison. Not so much Scotland, not so much the gorse and the cloud-wreathed mountains and the cows. 

_Crowley._

He recognised the ridiculousness of his longing, but he couldn’t put it away. 

Everything was good. Well. Everything was fine, anyway. The bookstore’s profits were still infinitesimal, but Aziraphale’s own book sales had picked up sharply after he’d been interviewed by a reporter from The Guardian. They’d described the whole ordeal as “life imitating fiction.” The story had apparently gone viral—whatever that meant—and as a result he’d signed another six book deal with his publishers. 

So everything was just fine. If he didn’t think too hard about things, he could skate along the surface of fine. He was fine. Fine and dandy. Just tickety boo, thank you very much. 

The shop bell tinkled. 

“Az,” Anathema said, her voice strangled.

He looked up. 

The customer stood in the doorway, and Aziraphale blinked against the contrast between the shop’s dim interior and the brightness of the spring day outside. Against the glare he barely recognised him for a moment. Until the lean silhouette, the black clothing, the shock of copper hair came abruptly into focus.

He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t do anything but sit and stare as Crowley walked into the shop. 

He’d cut his hair, Aziraphale noticed distantly—short on the sides, but still long enough to flop over his eyes in an artfully messy way. Otherwise he looked as he had on that day all those months ago, when Aziraphale watched the police take him away.

Those months had passed in a blur of official statements to the police, a flurry of press interest around the court case, and then stretches of nothing. Aziraphale and Anathema had been told they weren’t needed to testify for any of it. The police had enough evidence to lock Gabriel up for a long time.

Crowley had seemingly disappeared off the face of the earth. His name never appeared in the trial details that appeared in the media, apart from “testimony from unnamed witnesses.” 

Not that Aziraphale had googled him every few days since then, but if he had, there’d been nothing there. Nothing at all. Lots of links to Aleister Crowley, but Anthony J. Crowley (if that had even been his name) was gone. 

So Aziraphale had done his best to put it behind him. He’d worked on his next book. He’d gone to the gym, once. He’d tried yoga videos. He’d taken a pottery class, and made Anathema the worst plant pots in the history of pottery. Anathema had tried to convince him to go to dance lessons, which he’d briefly thought about attending, as a distraction, but then he remembered not quite dancing in a grim little pub room and decided against it. 

He’d told himself he would never see Crowley again, and that it was for the best.

And now Crowley was here, _in Anathema’s shop,_ his eyes hidden behind his sunglasses, a cardboard box about the size of a book in his hands.

Anathema was instantly between them, bristling. “You’ve got some _fucking_ cheek—” she began, but Crowley thrust the box at her and cut her off. 

“Before you say anything else, just open this,” he said. “Please. This is me begging you. Open it.”

She looked down at the box then cast a look back at Aziraphale. “It’s not up to me.”

His heart was hammering so loudly he was surprised he could hear what they were saying. His mouth was desert dry, and it took him a moment to put the words together in the right order. “It’s all right, Anathema. Open it.”

She carefully took the box from Crowley, as though it might contain a live snake, then lifted the lid. For a long span of time she simply stood and stared into it, her face slack with surprise.

“Holy shit,” she finally said, astonished. “How did you? I saw you burn it—”

Aziraphale stepped closer, and looked into the box.

Nestled within it was a small red covered book. This close, Aziraphale could see the cover was intricately decorated in spirals and curves that twisted back on themselves. Not a book. _The_ book. _The Book of Angels_. 

“Yeah. So. Funny story that,” Crowley said, his voice scratchy and strange, his accent as thick as Aziraphale had heard it during the three days they’d spent together. “The other book was what we call in the forging business _a fake_. I made it the night before. My mate Adam drove me out to my car and I got my stuff. Whipped up a fake cover, stuck in some blank pages of vellum. It wasn’t a very good job, but it just needed it to be good enough.”

“Why would you go to the trouble of making a fake book and then burning it?” Anathema said.

Crowley ran a hand through his hair, mussing it even further. “I wasn’t going to burn it, I was going to use it as a decoy to get you both out of there if the police were taking too long. The burning was just...a spontaneous thing.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” Anathema said.

“I know,” Crowley grimaced. “It wasn’t a very good plan.”

“I really thought you’d stolen it.” Aziraphale looked down at the book, at its dull red cover, rubbed worn and smooth by thousands of fingertips, and then back up at Crowley’s face. “I thought you’d stolen it...and then you came back.” 

“I was going to steal it,” Crowley said tightly, as though the admission cost him. “I opened the packet the night we were at Teddy Bear Lady’s house, and I saw what it was. And at the pub, after we got back to town, when you went to get a phone charger, I swapped the real book for one of yours.

“But I realised I couldn’t just let you go to Gabriel’s and hand over a paperback. It was too dangerous. So I called the cops, and I made the forgery, and came back to the pub. I was planning on taking you to Gabriel’s the next day, and then giving him the fake book before the police came. Make out like it was fake the whole time.” 

“And you’d keep the real for yourself,” Aziraphale added.

Crowley nodded, and exhaled a loud a huff of air. “Yeah. That was the plan. But then I...then we...then we were together. And I realised I couldn’t do any of it. I couldn’t betray you like that.”

Aziraphale felt his face growing hot, and Anathema darted a quick look at him. 

“But you _did_ betray him,” she said coldly. “You stole the book. You’ve had it all this time.”

Crowley made a small, defeated noise. “Ok, I deserve that. But it seemed like a really bad idea to just pop up here. I called the cops. I wore a wire. Gabriel was locked up for the rest of his bloody life because of my testimony.”

He was moving now, jiggling slightly, rocking on his feet. He looked as if he might bolt from the shop at any moment. Aziraphale wanted to reach for him, and steady him with a hand on his shoulder; he also wanted to run away himself, away from the dreadful ache in his chest. 

“How can we trust you about this?” Anathema said, but her voice had softened. “This might be a fake too.”

Crowley nodded, as if he’d been expecting the question. “So there’s the number of a guy from Oxford in there. He knows his stuff. He’ll help you out. Confirm it’s the real thing.”

They stared at Crowley. He swallowed, throat moving, and Aziraphale remembered how it felt to kiss a line down that throat.

“Look. Aziraphale,” he trailed off. “I didn’t expect that you’d be happy to see me. I just wanted to give it back and explain. So. Ok. You’ve got it, and...now you know.”

Outside, the traffic hummed and music played in the distance. Aziraphale didn’t know what to do next. 

“All right,” Aziraphale said softly.

Crowley nodded, and set his shoulders. “I’ll go then.”

The shop bell tinkled once again as Crowley left, out of the store, out into the world. Gone again. 

Aziraphale stood immobile on the spot, his feet now part of Anathema’s floor, forever. Crowley had swapped the books, but he’d called the police. Crowley had burnt a book, but he’d saved _the_ book. Crowley had walked away, but he’d come back, again. 

“What are you doing? Go after him,” Anathema said, snapping him out of his reverie. 

“What?”

“What do you mean, what? He just handed us back a fifteen million quid book! Go after him!”

“You said he was an awful lying piece of shit and death by a thousand paper cuts would be too good for him,” Aziraphale said distantly. His heart was still going too fast. “You said he should be tarred and feathered, and _then_ drawn and quartered, and _then_ thrown into the ocean.”

“Yes, but that was before he brought the book back for us. For you, Aziraphale, he brought it back for you. Go and find him!” 

Aziraphale barely heard what she was saying. Crowley _had_ come back, and Aziraphale didn’t want him to leave again. 

“Fuck,” he said.

He dashed out of the shop onto the busy Soho street. All around, people were out enjoying the ordinary warm spring morning, and Aziraphale resented every single one of them that wasn’t Crowley. He looked around desperately for the garnet gleam of his hair, but all he could see was the usual mass of life flowing around him. People living their nice ordinary lives, and the only person he wanted to see had disappeared. 

Why hadn’t he...asked for Crowley’s phone number at least? Asked him to stay? Invited him for a cup of tea? Why hadn’t he done something other than stand there gawping like a complete nincompoop. 

He couldn’t even decide which way to go—towards the tube maybe? Or perhaps Crowley had a car? He could have parked in the garage down to his left—

“Aziraphale,” Crowley’s voice came low and close behind him, and Aziraphale turned. There Crowley stood, his hands stuffed in his pockets, unreadable behind those blasted sunglasses. 

“Oh thank goodness,” Aziraphale said. “I thought I’d lost you.”

“No, I...” Crowley made a series of inarticulate noises, before pulling off the glasses and stashing them in his jacket pocket, as though preparing himself for a fight. “I wanted to say something else.”

“Right,” Aziraphale replied, suddenly breathless. He’d forgotten how Crowley’s eyes looked like honey, or that spectacularly good cider he’d had once at a little restaurant in France.

“Ok,” Crowley said, rushing now as if he couldn’t stop himself. “First of all, I read all your books. I really liked them.”

“Ah,” Aziraphale said, heart racing. “Thank you.”

Crowley took another step closer. “The other thing is, I’m sorry. I’m really bloody sorry. For all of it. No, not all of it. Some of it was good. Really good. The best time I’ve ever had. And...and I couldn’t stop thinking about you.” 

He stopped. A bus went past. A horn honked. A child called out. The distant music played on. Tourists argued about being lost. 

If he’d written this, Aziraphale would have set it somewhere romantic and wild. Back in Scotland, perhaps, against a backdrop of moors and mountains, not in front of a struggling secondhand bookshop in Soho as a busker murdered The Beatles in the distance. Not at 11am on a Tuesday morning in early May. 

The only thing he wouldn’t have changed was Crowley. 

“I couldn’t stop thinking about you either,” he said, and Crowley’s expression opened into something like hope. 

One of them must have reached for the other, or perhaps they met half way, Aziraphale wasn’t sure. Crowley’s hands cupped his face and he reached for Crowley’s waist, tugged him closer, until their mouths brushed together. Gently, tentatively even, but still the best thing ever.

They broke apart, and Aziraphale remembered that he was supposed to be angry, and he was supposed to be upset, but he found he didn’t care at all.

Crowley bent his head down slightly so his forehead bumped against Aziraphale’s. “I know I fucked everything up. I don’t deserve a second chance. But...I want one anyway.”

Aziraphale nodded. The world fell away, and it was nothing more than Crowley’s warm side under his hand, Crowley’s slender fingers tracing against his jaw. “Yes,” he said. “Yes.” 

Crowley kissed him again, and again.

* * *

_Six months later_

A path wound from the small, white-walled house, down a small hill and through some sand dunes, before opening out onto a beach. Beyond the sand, the Indian Ocean swelled and shifted, endlessly blue, nothing between the sands of this beach and the shores of Africa. Except possibly Madagascar, Aziraphale thought, watching the waves shimmer in the morning light. 

As he always did, he’d bought a folding lawn chair down to the beach so he could sit with his notebook and scribble as Crowley surfed. At least, Crowley called it surfing. He usually spent most of his time sitting on his surfboard, bobbing in the waves.

The morning sun glinted on the low, gentle waves. Too flat, Crowley had muttered, and he’d gone swimming instead. Aziraphale was vaguely worried about sharks and preferred to wait on the shore and watch.

The notebook was supposed to contain the seeds of his next novel, but instead he’d filled it with small notes. 

_(Facts: enjoys coffee milky and sugary, but orders espresso in cafes to seem cool. Will live on pot noodles and protein bars. I must make him eat more. Drives too fast. Favourite paint colour: Indanthrone blue. Favourite novel—after much insisting that he did not read—Lanark, Alasdair Gray, or possibly Slaughterhouse 5, Kurt Vonnegut. Music: still incomprehensible. Occasionally will allow The Beach Boys. Tattoos: snake, knife, skull with demon horns, sextant, stylised wave, some sort of terrifying plant monster. Owns only one item of clothing which is not black. Naps with alarming frequency. Hands are now always stained with paint. Has been working on one canvas since we arrived. Prefers no terms of endearment for himself, but has decided I am “Angel.” I rather like it.)_

Here on the other side of the world from the icy winds of the Scottish highlands, at the furthest point possible from the buzz and hum of London traffic, the sun was almost too hot. Aziraphale wasn’t sure yet if he approved of it. The heat. The smell of the place, the sounds. Unfamiliar birds warbling in the sunrise. The force of the light. A different set of stars in the sky.

Still. The ocean was beautiful. And he was here with Crowley. 

Crowley finally emerged from the ocean and stalked towards Aziraphale’s lawn chair, glistening rivulets of water running down his angular body. It had been only a few minutes since he’d dived into the water and it was like seeing him for the first time all over again. Aziraphale’s insides turned to hot liquid and he couldn’t stop himself from _staring_ like the besotted fool he was.

Crowley had asked after he’d come to the bookshop that day. Lying in Aziraphale’s bed, he’d said _come with me to Australia,_ and Aziraphale had laughed because of course he was joking, but he hadn’t been. He’d asked once more, quietly, hopefully. _I mean it, come with me._ And Aziraphale had said _yes._

And now Crowley leaned over him, dripping sea water. “Give us a kiss, love,” he said, and Aziraphale shoved the towel in his direction.

“You’re getting me all wet, you wretched thing.”

“Then you’ll have to get out of your damp clothes,” Crowley said, leaning closer and dripping even more. He caught Aziraphale’s mouth with his own; his lips were cool and he tasted of salt.

No matter how many times they kissed—no matter how many times Crowley came up behind him in the kitchen and pressed his mouth to the back of his neck, or coiled up beside him on the couch as he read and tugged at the hem of his shirt and slipped a hand beneath—his touch weakened Aziraphale’s knees, fizzed through his bloodstream. 

_(Details: enjoys kisses to the collarbone, inner thigh, jaw. Also likes gentle hair-pulling, soft biting. Swears endlessly during lovemaking. Hates the term lovemaking.)_

“I was,” Aziraphale said, with as much dignity as he could muster, “planning to write this morning.”

“Were you?” Crowley replied silkily. “I could help you go over the details of your next raunchy bit.” 

“Raunchy bit? Really? Do you have some particular expertise in that area?” Aziraphale replied archly.

Crowley pulled away, wrapping the towel around his waist. “Yeah, I’ve got a PhD in making you come,” he said with a smirk. 

“Good lord,” Aziraphale said in mock disapproval, but even Crowley’s terrible flirting made his breath catch in his throat. He reached out and took Crowley’s hand, and they hurried back up the path, towards the house. As soon as they were inside he reached for Crowley and pulled him closer and kissed him again, licked at the salt drying on his lips, ran his fingers through his still damp hair. 

_(Adjectives: lithe, lean, lanky.)_

“You’re so gorgeous when you come out of the water,” he whispered into Crowley’s neck. 

“Shut up,” Crowley said, backing him through the house, fingers moving down the buttons of his shirt. “You just complained about me dripping on you.”

They moved through one door and then another, trading kisses, until Aziraphale felt the back of his knees hit the bed.“I would never, you must be confused.”

“I’ll confuse you,” Crowley growled, pushing him gently back onto the mattress, tugging on the button of his trousers, pulling them down and off. 

“Is that a threat?”

“A guarantee,” Crowley said, and then laughed at himself, and Aziraphale laughed too. 

He settled himself back against the headboard and watched as Crowley slid his own black swimming trunks down his slim hips, and kicked them away. His cock already jutted against his ridiculously bright red body hair and the flatness of his stomach. Aziraphale had been hard since the beach, since Crowley had walked out the ocean, and now he was achingly so.

_(Nouns: copper, honey, whiskey.)_

Crowley moved onto the bed. Aziraphale shut his eyes for a moment as Crowley kissed his way up from his knee to his hip. He licked once along the length of his erection, and Aziraphale was briefly disappointed when he continued mouthing his way along his hip. Crowley was very good with his tongue. But this was good too, Crowley’s hands skimming down his sides while he layered kisses across his belly.

“Fuck, you’re perfect,” Crowley muttered into his skin. “I can’t get enough of you.”

“The feeling is mutual, obviously.”

“Obviously,” Crowley replied, and Aziraphale felt his mouth curving in a smile. 

He tangled his fingers back into Crowley’s hair and tugged, gently. “Then come up here.”

Crowley moved upwards, until he was hovering over Aziraphale, knees on each side of his hips, and kissed him with an open mouth, tongue slipping into his mouth, teeth tugging on his bottom lip. In return, Aziraphale dragged his fingers down the spareness of Crowley’s spine and then lower, dipping between his buttocks, stroking the soft skin there. 

“Angel,” Crowley said, low and rough. “I want your cock in me.”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Aziraphale replied with a soft nip against his jawline.

Crowley huffed in frustration. “Come on angel, I’m desperate here. I’m throwing myself at you.”

“I’d noticed.” Aziraphale could draw it out, if he wanted, until Crowley was a mess of irritated arousal. Reducing Crowley to hopeless begging was one of his new favourite pastimes. 

But not now. Instead he reached out and pulled the bottle of lube from the bedside drawers, and rubbed it over his fingers as Crowley muttered something about someone going so bloody slowly. He would, if Aziraphale let him, skip this part entirely; he was always in a rush, as if he expected Aziraphale might change his mind and rush off to the nearest airport at any moment. 

But he didn’t complain when Aziraphale pushed him back, up on his knees. Or when Aziraphale reached between them and slowly pressed a finger inside him, or when he eased a second finger in and then out again with slow, steady strokes. 

“Like that, darling?”

“Fuck, yeah.” Crowley’s eyes were half-lidded, and he bit down on his own bottom lip. “Feels good. Your dick would feel better though.”

Aziraphale gently, obediently withdrew his hand—even though he would love to touch Crowley like that for hours, if he wanted—and then slicked himself. For a heartbeat or three, Crowley simply stared down at him, one hand on his shoulder and the other between them, curled around Aziraphale’s cock, and then he lowered himself down. 

He was so warm and tight and lovely. One of them made a low sound, almost a moan, or maybe it was both of them. For all his haste, Crowley took the length of him slowly, inching down until he was deep inside.

Aziraphale lifted his hips, and Crowley inhaled sharply. “Fuck. Fuck. You’re so good. Feels so good.”

It _was_ good, impossibly good. Every time, it was better than Aziraphale had ever thought possible. He was endlessly surprised by how he felt inside Crowley, how it was beyond his capacity to describe, how there simply weren’t the right words. How it felt when Crowley rose and fell again, and again, thighs tensing, back arching, his breath coming in short sharp exhales, each movement sending a shock of pleasure down the length of Aziraphale’s cock. 

“Angel, fuck, yes,” Crowley said with each roll of their hips. 

Aziraphale’s own orgasm gathered up like a wave heaving towards the shore, and he thrust in counter time with Crowley’s movements. He gripped Crowley’s hips and rocked into him again, and again, until the wave crashed against the shoreline.

He didn’t have the words for that either, that perfect aching moment when he came with a thrust and a gasp, deep inside Crowley’s body. Or when he stroked Crowley to his own finish, moments later, spilling hot and wet over Aziraphale’s hand. 

The only thing he had a word for was what happened after, for the way Crowley would kiss him and tug him onto his side so they could lie wrapped together, mess be damned. More than one word, actually. Three words.

“You should definitely write about that one,” Crowley said, nuzzling his head into Aziraphale’s chest. 

“Should I?”

“Yeah. Definitely a one of the top five fucks this week.”

“It’s only Wednesday, dearest.”

“Now that sounds like a challenge. Just give me a couple of hours, will you?”

Hot bands of sunlight sliced into the room, and it would soon be too warm for the press of limbs, but Aziraphale didn’t want to move. He wanted to stay wrapped up with Crowley forever. “I love you,” he said into Crowley’s hair.

“I love you,” Crowley said back, drowsily, his voice a low thrum against Aziraphale’s skin.

_(Verbs: to desire, to cherish, to love.)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you’re wondering where exactly Crowley and Aziraphale are at the end of this story, it’s somewhere between Yallingup and Augusta in Western Australia, overlooking the Indian Ocean.  
> I’m at Tumblr at Antikate if you ever want to talk about nouns, adjectives and verbs.


End file.
